by J. A. Kerley
Truman sat at the computer, the only light coming from the screen. The secret, external drive was in place. He stopped his cutting and pasting of a web-page template and wrinkled his nose.
“Jeez, Rose. Do you have to eat those damned things in here? They stink.”
“It’s just carob, Tru.”
Truman jabbed his finger toward the back of his throat and made a gagging sound. Rose curled his arm and pointed to a mountainous bicep. “Here’s mine. Let’s see yours, junk-food junkie.”
Truman mouthed up yours and looked back to the screen. Rose watched as Truman stacked empty rectangles on a field of crimson.
“What are you doing, Tru?”
“Changing the site. Then I’m writing the buyer to tell him there was some trouble with his selection.”
“You telling him what the trouble was?”
Truman pecked at the keys. “Don’t be a moron, Rose.”
“What’ll you do?”
“Make another offer, give him another choice.”
Rose said, “You’ve got a bunch more in the gallery.”
Truman closed his eyes and shook his head. “He’s seen the whole gallery, Rose. He picked LaShelle. I can’t offer him products he’s already rejected. ‘Oh, excuse me, my brother killed your first selection, what’s your second choice?’ It’s not good business, Rose; I’m trying to build a reputation for service and quality.”
Rose rolled his eyes, then leaned in and studied the screen as his brother jockeyed photos and background colors on the computer screen.
“Who are you showing?”
Truman said, “Ones he hasn’t seen before. Shots taken in the last couple weeks.”
“You’re putting the new pictures up tonight?”
Truman shook his head. “No. Tonight I’ll send an apology. Tomorrow will be the showing. I’m hoping one’ll set him off.”
“Which ones are they?” Rose asked, his brow furrowing in concern.
Truman leaned back, slowly enumerating on his fingers. “Let’s see. There’s Dawn and, uh, Teena.”
“That’s two. You said four.”
“I can count, asswipe, I’m thinking. Uh, Berri.”
“Three.”
“And … oh shit, I can’t remember her name. The one that said pickle instead of cheese. Jacy, that’s it.”
Rose frowned. “Jacy?”
“Is there an echo in here?”
“Which do you think he’ll pick?” Rose whispered.
“Look at my hands, Rose. You see a crystal ball?”
Four time zones to the east, the Petite Angel bore westward at twelve knots, its bow knifing swells of a sudden storm. Lightning flashed pictures of the storm’s tumult: White-capped waves, gray spray lathering the bow, roiling bottoms of black clouds. When the storm had been a distant blossom on the radar, Captain Sampanong had flooded the bilges and now the ship rode steady and solid. Within Mattoon’s quarters a slow roll and muted thunder were lone hints of the slashing weather.
Mattoon sat at his desk sipping claret from a balloon glass. He’d checked Dear and found her in her usual position, curled tight beneath the bed. He’d furnished her room with a canopy bed sheeted with silk and curtained with velvet, but she chose to sleep in the tight space beneath it.
But not for long, Matton thought, rolling the glass between his palms. The universe was about to shift, and new love would soon be entering his life.
An explosion of thunder drew him to open the window. Between the flashes of lightning Mattoon studied his reflection as if watching a man outside looking in, a man with an angular face topped with ink-black hair and a widow’s peak so severe and pointed it resembled a honed mohawk.
Mattoon lifted his glass in salute to the man in the storm, saw him return the salutation. He went to the map cabinet and retrieved a large satellite photo of upper Mobile Bay, studying a land parcel just below Mobile, acreage on which he had quietly taken options, though not under the name of Mattoon Maritime. That information would be revealed in the most propitious manner possible. Money could enter regions quietly, or with great clamor, Mattoon knew; he preferred clamor, but at the hour of his choosing.
Mattoon had long ago learned that, when large and sudden investment entered an area, a small percentage had to be parceled off to local fixers and politicians. Bribes, graft, mordita … whatever, it was all just business, an investment in getting zoning codes changed, environmental requirements waived, inspections amended.
The few that knew of his Mobile aspirations were already at his door with their hands out. By paying them, he made them complicit. And with complicity came their protection.
The ship’s clock chimed above low rumbles of disappearing thunder; Mattoon quickly replaced the map in the cabinet. He returned to the desk, flipped a switch. Heralded by a soft whir, a flat monitor rose from within the desk. Mattoon slid a microwave keyboard and mouse from a drawer. There was a particular site he wanted to view, transient, appearing five minutes a day.
Mattoon sent passwords and ID, fingers playing keys as tenderly as coaxing a lullaby from a piano.
“Thank heaven …” The words sang through his head as the three corresponding tones signaled connection. The screen stayed black. Mattoon keyed in a final set of numbers.
“… for little girls,” the notes concluded, and the screen lit with smiling faces of schoolgirls. A flashing light in the corner signaled a direct communication, perhaps more information about the location and time of the exchange. A year ago, during the acquisition of Dear, the transference had gone flawlessly—a meeting on a nighttime dock, a quivering body hustled between vehicles. The package had been transferred to the ship and opened in safe and distant waters.
In a very short time the exchange would operate again.
Mattoon touched the cursor to the blinking light and clicked. The dark of the screen was replaced with a virtual notepad. The message was brief:
We regret to inform you that problems with your selection (Nalique) cancel our ability to make delivery. We apologize. The problems are not a threat to our business or to yourself. We wish to assure you of our continued devotion to service and satisfaction and will give alternatives ASAP.
Thank you for your continued patronage.
Mattoon stared at the screen for a full minute, then printed the message, just so he could rip the page to pieces.
Chapter 17
It was closing on nine a.m. when Ryder pushed through the door of the Forensics department. The temperature outside was already in the humid mid eighties and the low-set air conditioning felt good. He checked in and wandered back to the main lab, seeing Wayne Hembree twiddling with a microscope. Hembree looked up at the approaching footsteps.
“Howdy, Carson. Did I hear you right on the phone? Sandhill’s actually coming in?”
“I told him nine, for whatever’s that’s worth.”
Hembree eyeballed the clock: 8.59 a.m. “Never knew him to be late. Never knew him to be early. Never saw him coming, he just appeared. The lab was one of his favorite haunts. He’d slip over here on slow days just to ask questions and paw through stuff. Kind of like someone else I know.”
Ryder found it odd that Hembree hadn’t mentioned Sandhill’s “troubles”, and actually seemed buoyed by a visit from the tainted ex-detective.
“How’s the Gumbo King doing?” Hembree asked.
Ryder shrugged. “I really wouldn’t know, Bree. Keeping busy, I guess. The restaurant and all.”
“My wife and I ate there a few weeks back. Five p.m. Saturday and the wait line was out the door. Sandhill in the back singing, the waitress laughing and being in three places at the same time. Great food. Sandhill didn’t see me until we were ready to leave. Wouldn’t take my money and sent us out with a quart of gumbo for the freezer, besides.”
“Because if your ass got any skinnier it’d slip between the cracks in a park bench,” Sandhill said, suddenly in the room. “What you got for me to look at, Bree?”
H
embree’s eyes shot challenge over the tops of his outsize glasses. “Huh-uh, Conner. First you have to show me yours. Word has it you think the girl was brought to the house instead of being killed there. I can’t find anything tells me one way or the other.”
Sandhill produced a scrap of notepaper from the pocket of his paisley vest and studied his scrawls.
“Could you get me scene photos P-138-43 through 49?”
Hembree dialed an internal line and made the request. A minute later a woman criminalist brought the seven photos. Sandhill queued the 8 x 10s on the tabletop and tapped one as Hembree and Ryder leaned in.
“Check this out, gentlemen.”
“Looks like burnt carpet,” Ryder said.
Hembree nodded. “It’s what’s left of the cheap-ass acrylic carpet from the floor in the living room.”
“What’d you get from it, Bree?” Sandhill asked.
“Almost nothing. We’ve been trying to raise bloodstains, make protein checks. The fire pretty much toasted it.”
“Look closer.” Sandhill tapped another photo in the rank, a close-up of a corner of the melted fabric. Hembree put a loupe to his eye and leaned over the photo. Several dark and slightly curled projections angled from the rug like thorns.
“Carpet tacks,” Hembree said. “So what? It’s a carpet. The fire charred away the pine flooring and the tacks became visible.”
“Look at the tip of the tack. It’s bent. Just a tad.”
The Forensics tech frowned through the lens.
“And?”
“That’s what happens when you pull carpet off a floor,” Sandhill said. “The points of carpet tacks are thin and easily bent. Unless you pull the carpet straight up, they curl.”
Ryder ran it through his head. Saw the light. “The carpet was already up.”
“May change things,” Sandhill said.
Hembree leaned over the loupe and studied the tacks for a full minute.
“Beautiful. How the hell’d you figure that out, Conner?”
“I yanked out a roomful of raggedy-ass carpet when fixing up the restaurant. I was on a spit-and-bandage budget and thought I’d put the tacks in a jar and use them again. To get carpet up you lean back for leverage and start yanking. The tacks always bent. Only a careful vertical pull kept them straight, and not always, either.”
Ryder pictured Sandhill removing the carpet in the restaurant, turning it into an experiment. Pull. Study. Yank. Study.
He said, “It’s not conclusive of anything.”
“No,” Sandhill said. “But it is suggestive that the girl might have been killed elsewhere and her body rolled in the carpet and taken to the house, the fire then set. Maybe LaShelle was being kept with Maya.” He raised a dark eyebrow.
“Jesus,” Hembree said. “Maybe Maya’s still alive.”
Sandhill crossed his arms. “Your turn to show me yours, Bree.”
Hembree riffled through the papers, selected one and studied it.
“The body was burned deeply—too much heat, by the way, to determine if sexual activity had occurred. But the stomach was intact. We’ve been doing contents analysis.”
Sandhill nodded, waiting.
“Peanut butter was the prime finding. Relatively undigested and probably consumed within an hour of her death. Gluten and other starches indicate bread. Components from the breakdown of fructose indicate—”
“Jelly,” Ryder said quietly. “Peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches.”
Hembree nodded approvingly. “Jam, actually. Probably grape.”
He slipped another report from the pile and handed it to Ryder. There was a graph attached resembling a spiky drawing of mountains. Ryder studied the report and began mumbling.
“Manganese, calcium, phosphorus, dicalcium phosphate, folic acid …”
Hembree separated another report from the stack, lines at varying heights, and handed it to Sandhill. He began reading aloud.
“Magnesium, zinc, chromium …”
“Lecithin, albumin, choline bitartrate,” Ryder said. “Plus protease, cellulose, lipase.”
Sandhill said, “Selenium, copper, molybdenum.”
“Amylase,” Ryder said.
“Potassium,” Sandhill countered, snapping a nail against the report. “Plus Vitamins A through K.”
Ryder frowned at the forensics specialist. “My God, Bree. This little girl was given the mother of all One-a-Day vitamins.”
“I didn’t find any binders that indicate pills,” Hembree said. “I think she had one of those energy drinks. Like athletes and weightlifters use. And consider the albumin in the test. It wasn’t processed.”
“An energy drink with fresh egg in it,” Ryder said.
Hembree said, “It’s the best guess so far.”
Sandhill lofted an eyebrow. “The perp making a conscious effort to ensure the girls get good nutrition?”
Ryder said, “Maybe. But is he mixing it for them, or sharing his?”
“If you’re not into this kind of stuff, it probably wouldn’t occur to you to use it. He’s sharing. It’s a good bet our boy’s into health: heavy-duty exercise, strength training, distance running, something like that.”
Ryder shook his head. “Why feed your captives a nutrition drink when you’re planning on killing them in a week?”
Sandhill said, “Exactly. Take it the next step.”
“He wasn’t planning on a death, you think?”
“The fire was an addendum, maybe. A cover-up for a mistake.”
“It works,” Ryder said. “If something went wrong.”
Sandhill nodded. “Why go through all the trouble and risk of pulling a kid from her house or taking her from a well-traveled street? If all you crave is sex, why not pluck a lone kid from a back street or playground?”
Hembree closed his eyes. “That’s cold, Conner.”
“It’s how the savages think, Bree. This time there’s maybe another scenario. Like the perp’s concerned with the physical well-being of the girls.”
“Keeping them healthy for longer, uh, usage?” Hembree grimaced.
“Maybe,” Sandhill said. “But it suggests Maya could be alive, at least until whatever’s happening plays out. Maybe even Darla; hell, that kid in Missouri was found after four years. And keeping the girls nourished reinforces the idea the girls are carefully targeted, maybe know the perp. How’s that sit with you, Ryder?”
Ryder felt his pulse quicken. For the first time, the case had a direction.
“Tight and right,” he said.
Chapter 18
It was ten a.m. when Mattoon summoned Sampanong from the bridge. Mattoon had slept poorly, kept awake by his anger at those who’d reneged on their deal. But, as often when anger rose in him, he transformed energy into action, focusing on his plans for Mobile. He gestured across charts, maps and satellite photos on his desk, bright in the track spot light from above.
“What do you think, Captain?”
Sampanong leaned over the materials. “It seems ideally located, Mr Mattoon. Highway 65, Highway 10. The Intercoastal Waterway intersecting the bay. Spurs to major rail lines.”
“The dockage itself?” Mattoon asked.
The captain scanned the water depth, tapping the map with a nut-brown finger. “Dredged to fifty feet, huge turning basin; navigating the facility will be like parking an automobile.”
“I’m planning the installation of two cranes to begin with, fixed and mobile. Ample warehousing. Cold storage. You too must tell no one, Captain. No scuttlebutt when communicating with others.”
Sampanong looked mortified. “Mr Mattoon, I would never, ever—”
“Infusing tens of millions of dollars into a local economy is a powerful tool, Captain, and I hope to wield it with maximum leverage.”
“Of course, Mr Mattoon. I understand.”
Mattoon looked at the clock and nodded, a sign the conversation was over. Sampanong didn’t quite conceal his relief as he scurried out the door. Mattoon’s mouth flatt
ened into a smile, sure Sampanong was as close-lipped as a corpse, but it never hurt to remind his men that secrecy was sacrosanct on the Petite Angel.
Mattoon activated his computer. While the secret website only appeared for five minutes daily, communiqués from the site’s owner could arrive anytime, and Mattoon had checked hourly since the wretched news about Nalique last evening.
A light flashed on his screen, indicating a communication. Mattoon ran the encrypted information through a decrypt program and a page appeared. He scanned the worthless, simpering message and his mind registered the words “… for your approval …”
He scrolled down to find a sextet of faces against a neutral background “… hope to replace your original selection with an alternate offering in the same …”
Mattoon studied the faces in sequence. Dross. Common as rocks in a quarry. No face could compare with the beauty of Nalique. What had happened to her? Had someone else taken her? With growing anger Mattoon leaned over the last photo …
And forgot how to breathe.
The name beneath the photo was Lorelei. A blinking star atop the photo indicated more pictures were available. He clicked the cursor over the star and a montage of Loreleis unfolded.
Mattoon leaned close and studied each photo in the montage as if it were a secret message for him alone. His anger dissolved and he realized the replacement of Nalique with Lorelei was the universe’s way of rewarding him for the purity of his life.
“I knew it!” Truman exulted, leaping from the computer chair and launching fists clenched in victory. Rose was supine on the floor, sucking a power bar and squeezing hard rubber balls in both fists. The veins in his forearms stood out like mole-burrows.
“What?” Rose grunted.
“Our customer went crazy for Lorelei. Listen to his note: ‘With Lorelei you have outdone my expectations. I accept the substitution. But this selection ABSOLUTELY MUST NOT fall through. I INSIST on your fulfillment of this obligation. I am several days from arrival in your city and will soon make contact to establish payment and transferal procedures.’”
