“I’ll give my ruling at eight o’clock tomorrow morning!” Barlow glared at me as he rapped his gavel. He slammed his bench book closed.
The bailiff stepped forward, nervously cleared his throat, and ordered, “All rise!” Barlow swept off the bench and vanished into his chambers.
As I started packing my briefcase, I noticed Marc standing near the back of the courtroom.
“What was that?” Tracy asked.
“He hates it when lawyers prove him wrong.”
“He was badgering you! He was insulting.”
“He hates it even more when female lawyers prove him wrong.”
“It’s not fair! It’s like you had two defense lawyers against you! I thought the judge was supposed to be—!”
“This isn’t law school, Tracy. If you want to practice in the criminal courts, you’re going to need a thick skin. I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to it.”
The young woman subsided into offended silence.
I finished packing my briefcase. When I looked up, Marc was gone.
He wasn’t waiting in the lobby, either.
I asked Tracy to take my briefcase back to the office.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m making a detour. It’s time I paid a little visit to CID.”
* * *
Lieutenant Ted Lipinski’s office was located in a boxed-off corner on the CID floor. It had no outside windows, but two walls were paneled with tinted glass so he could survey the array of desks and cubicles in the squad room.
When I knocked and entered, I was presented with an interesting tableau.
Jeff Geiger was slouching in a chair with his gusseted loafers propped on his boss’s cluttered desk. He was decked out in his customary microfiber cool duds, flipping through a glossy skin magazine and listening to what sounded like a ball game on a smartphone positioned on the desk near his feet.
Lipinski was standing in some kind of pose behind his desk. His sports jacket was a nauseating shade of green. He appeared to be admiring his reflection in the tinted glass. Quite apart from the ridiculous jacket, Lipinski’s reflection was not one to admire. He was a doughy specimen in his late fifties, with just enough sagging skin and broken veins in his face to corroborate a lifetime of unhealthy habits. Considering the man was a contemporary of Marc Hastings, the contrast between the two could not have been more striking.
I noticed a tag dangling from one sleeve of his jacket. It bore a marked-down price notation in red.
“So, Lieutenant,” I said as I shut the door behind me, “I see you’re leaving the job.”
Wary eyes studied me. “What are you talking about?”
“Judging from the jacket, you’re going into real estate.”
“Toldja, boss!” Geiger piped in as he lowered his feet from the desk and killed the game on his phone.
Lipinski looked affronted. “The woman at the store said it looked good.” He aimed the response at me.
“This woman … would she happen to be the one who sold it to you?”
He scowled.
There was a metal-framed chair jammed against the wall to my right. I pulled it up and sat down. “Before you run off and join the Million Dollar Club, I’d like you to tell me what’s going on with those two skeletons.”
“Thought you were here to talk about your own case,” Lipinski said. He dropped into the lopsided chair behind the desk. “That mugging. Or whatever it was.”
This man really is an insect.…
“What it was,” I replied mildly, “was something more than a mugging. But I know perfectly well how to write a witness statement. I’ll e-mail it to Jeff. Right now, I want to know where we are on this one.”
“Where we are?” Lipinski’s voice notched up as if I’d just issued a threat rather than merely asked a question. “It’s not your case yet, Counselor! And it probably never will be!”
After today’s session with Judge Barlow, I wasn’t going to be fazed by Lipinski’s saber rattling. I was about to highlight a few facts of life—for example, our relative positions in the food chain—when Geiger spoke up.
“We trolled through the Jordan file, looking for witnesses to reinterview,” he said in a placating tone. “Almost everyone’s either moved or dead. We think the guy she was planning to marry is living in Iowa. The state police up there are trying to track him down.”
“Those bodies were found because of a road-widening project. The DOT’s attorneys probably used their eminent domain authority to condemn that property and take it for public use. Have you tracked down the former owner?”
“Yes.”
“Batty old broad!” Lipinski snorted.
I ignored Lipinski and focused on Geiger. “Tell me.”
“Her name’s Anna Fenwick. Lives down near Ocala. She told us she hadn’t been near the property in over ten years. Sold it to the highways guys last year. Accepted their first offer.”
Lipinski interjected. “Take it from us … the old woman’s loopy!”
“What do you mean?”
“Because she’s weird! Kept looking at me, calling me ‘you poor dear,’ saying I should be drinking some kind of herbal tea. ‘Gabble’ or something.”
“GABA?”
“Yeah! What is it?”
“It’s Japanese. They say it reduces the effects of alcohol.”
“Alcohol?” His face reddened and his eyes slid away from mine.
I changed the subject. “What about the Jane Doe?”
“No match on the dentals,” Geiger answered. “Snead’s doing the DNA workups on both bodies, but it’s not like the cops back then went around bagging victims’ hairbrushes. No one was using DNA in 1978. We’re going to have to track down family members and get blood samples.”
“Considering where she was found, the odds are that Jane Doe was one of the eight.”
“The dentals we have don’t match,” Geiger said. “So she’d have to be one of the Spanish girls.”
“I don’t know … those girls were both in their early twenties. Terry told me this girl was a lot older.”
“He could be wrong on that,” Geiger countered. “Said so himself.”
“She’s probably one that was never reported,” Lipinski said. “A hooker nobody missed.”
“Okay,” I said, responding to Geiger. “Say Terry’s wrong. Depending on whether she’s Castaño or Ruiz, that would mean she was buried either two months, or more than a year, after she went missing. Either that or she was buried somewhere else and then dug up later and moved. None of which makes sense.”
Lipinski eyed me suspiciously. “You seem to know a lot about this case.” His expression darkened further. “What is this, Counselor? Some kind of test?”
My questions were some kind of test, but I wasn’t going to tell Lipinski that. “I’ve just been doing my reading, Lieutenant.”
“Reading what? The investigation files are all stored here.”
I decided to understate the truth. “Our office has copies of all the old missing person reports.”
“Why?” he badgered. “Who had them?”
I had to think quickly. “I guess Roy Wells. They were in his filing cabinet.”
I was expecting more cross-examination from Lipinski, but Geiger spoke first.
“We do have one small problem: A box of reports is missing.”
“Missing? As in … misplaced?”
“As in, gone. There were twenty-six boxes, all numbered. We can’t find box eighteen. We’ve had three people searching the archives and the property room.”
Lipinski’s chair creaked as he rolled it forward and leaned his elbows on the desk. He growled, “Ya know what I think?”
“No. What do you think?”
“Hastings took it! I can feel it.”
“Hastings?” I played dumb. “You mean—?”
“The guy who saved your ass the other night! Worked here in CID, back in the late ’70s. Quit before his pension locked in. Moved up n
orth somewhere.” His lip curled. “I always thought there was something fishy about him. And now, right after we find the bodies, he shows up at the morgue! What does that tell ya?”
“That maybe this case has been bothering him all these years.”
“Yeah? Then why resign when the investigation’s still going on?”
“Maybe,” I suggested, staring back at him, “because some of his colleagues started investigating him?”
“Who told you that?”
“Sam Grayson.”
“Oh.” He toned it down. “Well, there were some indicators. Nothing you could put your finger on. He knew the last girl. There was some talk, like maybe they’d dated at one time. All we know is the Jordan girl disappears and not long after, Hastings up and quits! He doesn’t just transfer out of CID. He leaves the police department and then he leaves town. And after he quits … guess what? No more missing girls!”
“What does that prove? Sam told me Hastings was cleared.”
“He had alibis. But I always thought there was something weird about the guy. And why, after thirty years, does he just happen to be in town, and why does he just happen to have copies of those girls’ dental charts?”
“Were the original charts in that missing box?”
A pause.
“No.”
“No?”
“We found ours later,” Geiger said. “But by then, Snead didn’t need them.”
I almost laughed.
I stood up. I looked at Jeff Geiger—young, halfway intelligent, but exhibiting none of the drive of a man who wants to be all he can be. I took in his skin magazine, pointedly left open on the desk, displaying some anonymous temptress’s crotch in all its high-def glory. I looked at Lipinski, squatting toadlike behind his desk, clad in that absurd jacket—an aging mediocrity, tired, defensive, and hostile.
I’m sure the expression on my face revealed my low opinion, but I couldn’t resist driving the message home. “Maybe you boneheads should get off your butts and get to work before this Hastings guy completely shows you up!”
I turned on my heel and walked out, leaving the door ajar.
Lipinski called after me. “Just stick to yer lawyerin’, girlie, and leave the police work to the professionals! Ya hear me?”
Girlie!
Detectives’ heads swung as I stormed past desks in the squad room. I took the stairs so I could cool off before I reached the main floor lobby.
14
It was just after six when I left the office. Halfway home, I changed my mind, changed direction, and drove to Marc’s building. I didn’t call him to say I was coming. Two can play the surprise game.
But it didn’t quite work out that way.
I found a parking space and was about to grab my purse when I spotted Marc standing near the curb in front of his building. He was facing away from me, talking on his cell and watching the street, as if he was waiting for a ride. I half expected the white SUV to appear, but instead a taxi drove up.
He got in and the taxi pulled away.
He hadn’t once looked in my direction, so I was sure he hadn’t seen me. I decided to follow him. He seemed to know a lot about me; it was time I learned something about him.
The cab navigated through the center of town and onto Route 20, heading east. I remained several cars back, keeping it in sight.
After seven or eight miles, it turned off onto County Road 325, heading south. I thought this was a bit strange. The next community was Cross Creek, a hammock-country backwater located on an isthmus between two lakes. The community’s sole claim to fame was that Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, a Pulitzer Prize–winning author, had once lived there.
The traffic had thinned, and there were no cars between mine and the taxi. It was getting dark. The road was dead straight, so I slowed down and followed the taxi’s taillights from a half mile back. Miles of grassed road shoulders rolled by, punctuated by long tunnel-like stretches created by the immense trees intertwined overhead. Twice the cab’s lights disappeared around a curve, and twice I pushed up my speed and reestablished contact.
But after the third bend, the road ahead was dark.
A sign read CROSS CREEK, but there was no sign of the settlement yet, just scattered homes and outbuildings. I caught a few glimpses of pastureland behind fences and screens of trees. I pulled to the shoulder and got out of my car. I scanned the geography behind me, searching for the telling flicker of a vehicle’s lights on a side road or driveway.
Nothing.
I got back in the car and kept heading south. After a few minutes, I saw headlights approaching quickly from the other direction.
The taxi passed me, heading back to Gainesville.
Hell.
So much for spy games. Guess it’s time to go home.
I looked for somewhere to turn around. As my tires whined across the concrete decking of a bridge, I spotted a clapboard-and-shake-sided building off to the right. A painted sign next to the road read: THE YEARLING. I pulled off the highway. There was a scattering of cars and pickups in the parking lot, but still plenty of room for me to turn around. I was about to do just that when a stray thought hit me.
I parked in the nearest open slot, got out, and walked toward the building. I could hear a country song playing—Lady Antebellum’s “Our Kind of Love.” A lopsided screen door led onto a porch that featured the main entrance on the left, an old-fashioned Coca-Cola sign with a bench seat below it, and a window on the right. I had planned to walk straight into the bar, but instead I altered course, stepped to the window, and looked in.
All I could see was a row of restaurant tables and a few scattered diners.
I left the porch and walked to another window farther along the building. When I looked in, I saw six or seven men sitting on padded stools at a bar and a few empty tables. But at the back, on the far left, I could see part of another table. Marc was sitting there. At first I thought he was alone, but then I noticed two drink glasses on the table in front of him. Both drinks appeared untouched. I moved as far to the right as I could, but my view was blocked. I couldn’t see the person he was sitting with.
I debated with myself: Is this your business, Claire? Go home!
No! I wanted to know more about this secretive man who had elbowed his way into my life. I retraced my steps to the main door and entered.
A short passage led to a reception podium, which was unattended. I took a left into the bar area. I immediately saw that Marc was alone at his table. He had his cell phone to his ear and he was staring fixedly at his watch. I steeled myself and started walking toward him. A few of the barflies stopped talking and turned to look. One let out a low whistle. When I was halfway across the room, an older, white-haired woman with a deeply lined face came out of a stockroom behind the bar. When she saw me, she froze.
None of that registered with me until much later, because in that compressed span of time, other things were engaging my attention.
I noticed that the second glass I’d seen on Marc’s table was gone.
I noticed that his own glass was still full.
I noticed that a rear exit door located ten feet from his table was just clicking shut.
I noticed Marc lift his eyes from his watch, turn in his chair, and look straight at me. He snapped his phone shut. He rose from his seat and pulled out the other chair for me.
I sat, bewildered.
He resumed his seat.
“You knew I was following you,” I said. It was a statement, not a question.
“I did.”
“There was someone sitting here. In this chair.”
“An old friend. I once lived near here … just down the road. She had to leave.”
I glanced at the door that had just closed. “She, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Short visit.”
He didn’t respond.
A short man with a dark tan and arms like rope appeared at our table. He was wearing a waiter’s apron. I hadn’t seen him
when I entered. Behind him, the white-haired bar lady was edging hesitantly in our direction. She was staring fixedly at me. For some reason, she looked bewildered.
“Something for the lady?” the waiter asked.
Before I could answer, Marc shook his head. In that same instant, there was a bellow of rage from over near the bar, accompanied by the smash of breaking glass. All three of us turned to see a chair skittering sideways. It toppled with a bang as two men began scuffling and throwing punches.
The white-haired lady shouted, “Jimmy!” and hurried toward the melee.
The waiter rushed off, leaving his tray on our table. He waded straight into the brawl, attempting to separate the combatants—a gutsy move, considering both fighters were much bigger men. He was shoved aside, and the fight started in our direction. I looked at Marc and saw that he was gripping the waiter’s tray with both hands.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting ready!”
“For what?”
“This!”
One of the drunks grabbed a broken beer glass and swung it at his opponent. Just in time, the scrawny waiter grabbed his arm. The weapon flew out of the man’s fingers and spun away …
Straight at me.
In a blur, Marc lunged across the table and swung the tray up in front of my face, batting the glass away. It hit the floor and shattered.
The fight stopped. The room went quiet. I looked at Marc. He was checking his watch. There was an expression of wonder on his face. “It’s eight fourteen,” he said. I saw tears of relief in his eyes and the obvious question died in my throat. His hand dipped into his shirt pocket and brought out a twenty-dollar bill. He dropped it on the table and rose to his feet. “Mind giving me a lift home?”
I stood. Without a glance at the watching crowd, Marc took my arm and escorted me to the nearby rear exit.
As we left the building, I heard a woman’s voice call out: “Marc?”
If he heard, he pretended not to. I looked back through the narrowing gap of the closing door. The bar lady was standing in the middle of the room, staring at us.
She seemed transfixed.
“What just happened?” I asked as Marc led me quickly around to the parking lot.
Time of Departure Page 8
