"Damn! Damn, damn!" she screamed, slamming her fist on the steering wheel.
In the reafview mirror, flashing lights — a police car was speeding toward the hotel.
No, no…
The young officers glanced at her car but passed it by and parked up the street. They trotted to the crowd of guests by the manager's office. Several of them pointed to a room on the first floor and the cops hurried to it.
Two other squad cars showed up and then a boxy ambulance.
Run or stay?
Hell, they can trace my car. It'd seem more suspicious if she ran.
I'll come up with a story. My husband called me and asked for a ride.
My husband wanted me to meet him here…
I happened to see my husband's car…
The cops knocked on the door to room 103 and, when there was no answer, the skinny man in the white shirt unlocked the door. He stood back as the cops, their guns drawn, pushed inside.
One stepped back outside and spoke to the ambulance attendants. They walked inside slowly. If it was Stan's room, and if Stan was inside, Carolyn guessed he was dead.
But what had happened? What —
A rapping on her car window. She screamed and turned around. A large cop was standing beside her. She stared at him, her mouth open.
"Miss, could you move your car?" asked the beefy crew-cut cop politely.
"I — The tire. It's flat."
"Is something wrong, ma'am?"
"No. Nothing's wrong. I just… It's just that I had a flat tire."
"Could I see your license and registration, please?"
"Why?"
"Please? Your license and registration."
"Well, sure," she said, staring at him, his badge, his walkie-talkie. She didn't move.
A moment passed. "Now."
"Ma'am, you're acting kind of strange. I'd like to ask you to step out of your vehicle."
"Well, now, Officer…" She smiled and leaned toward him, easing her arms together. Only after a glance at his perplexed face did she realize that the attention-getting valley between her breasts was hidden by her conservative blue blouse.
She climbed out of the car, handed him the documents.
"You been drinking?"
"No, Officer. Well, I had one beer a couple of hours ago. Well, two."
"I see."
Then she glanced at the rear wheel, frowning. It looked as if somebody had put a trap under the tire — a piece of wood with a couple of nails hammered through it.
The cop noticed her gaze. "Damn kids. They do that sometimes for pranks. Throw 'em in the road. Think it's funny. This your current address?" Nodding at her license.
"Yes," she said absently. Eyes on the hotel room. More police cars had arrived; there were a dozen now, their lights flashing in alarming red and blue. Two men in suits and badges around their necks — one with bushy hair, one balding — arrived and stepped into room 103.
The cop walked to the rear of the Lexus to check the license plate. He seemed calm and reasonable. Carolyn was relaxing. He'd let her go. Sure he would. It'll be okay. Just stay calm and they'll never put anything together.
Then the crew-cut cop's walkie-talkie crackled. "We have a multiple homicide at the Heritage Hotel. Victims are a Loretta Samples, female cauc, thirty-two and a Stanley Ciarelli, male cauc, thirty-nine."
"What?" blurted the cop, looking up from the driver's license he held.
"Oh, Jesus," said Carolyn Ciarelli.
"Detective!" the traffic cop shouted to the bald man with the badge around his neck. "Think you better come over here."
Five minutes later she was sitting in the back of the patrol car — no handcuffs, at least — where she'd been asked to remain until everything got sorted out.
A young patrolman came running up to the detectives. He held a large plastic bag containing the pistol Lawrence had apparently dropped as he fled.
"What've we got here?" one detective asked.
"Probable murder weapon," the young officer said a little too eagerly. He drew snickers from the seasoned detectives, Mutt and Jeff.
"Let's see it," the balding detective said. "Hey, Charlie, any latents?"
An officer wearing latex gloves walked over to them. He was carrying a box with a wand attached, like a small neon tube. He shone a greenish light on the gun, examining it carefully.
"Nup, not a whorl or ridge."
Thank God, Lawrence had wiped the prints off.
"But," Charlie added, pulling on an eye loupe, "we got something here. Looks like a bit of blue tissue caught in the cylinder release catch." He examined it closely. "Yep, pretty sure it's Kleenex."
Oh, my God, no…
She glanced behind her to see the crew-cut cop walk to the Lexus, retrieve something and return. "Look what I found here, sir.
He pointed to the wad of blue Kleenex that Lawrence had dropped on the floor after he'd wiped the gun.
Well, so what? There were hundreds of thousands of boxes of Kleenex around the country. How could they prove —
Charlie unwadded the Kleenex carefully. There was a triangular tear in the center. Where the scrap on the gun would fit like the last piece in a jigsaw puzzle.
Another officer came up to the detectives holding the cloth gloves Lawrence had worn. The bushy-haired detective, now wearing latex gloves himself, lifted them. Smelled the palm. "Women's perfume."
Carolyn could smell the scent too. Opium. She started to hyperventilate.
"Sir," another cop called, "ran the registration on that weapon. It's the victims. Stanley Ciarelli."
No, impossible! It was the same gun the mugger'd had! She was sure. Had he stolen it from Stan's den? But how could he?
Carolyn realized all the cops were staring at her.
"Mrs. Ciarelli?" the bushy-headed detective asked, pulling his handcuffs from the back of his belt. "Could you stand up and turn around, please?"
"No, no, you don't understand," she cried.
After he read her the Miranda rights and put her back in the rear seat of the patrol car she heard a faint squealing of tires in the distance. She stared at the approaching car but her mind was elsewhere.
All right, let's figure it out, she thought. Let's say Lawrence and the mugger are in this together. Maybe the mugger's a friend of his. They steal Stan's gun. I stop in Dunning for coffee and gas. They could've followed me and found out I stop there every night. They make it look like it's a mugging, I sleep with Lawrence…
But why?
What's he up to? Who is he?
Just then the car that had been speeding toward the hotel skidded to a stop nearby. It was a golden-brown Lincoln.
Lawrence leapt out, leaving the door open, and ran in panic toward the doorway of room 103.
"No, no! My wife…"
A cop restrained him and pulled him back from the door. He was sobbing. "I came as soon as you called! I can't believe it! No, no, no…"
The cop's arm slipped around the shoulders of the fancy, navy blue trench coat and he led the sobbing man back to the detectives, who gazed at him with sympathy. The bald one asked softly, "Your name's Samples?"
"That's right," he said, struggling to control his sorrow. "Lawrence Samples." Breathlessly, he asked, "You mean… she was cheating on me? My wife was cheating on me? And somebody's killed her?"
You've got to make it look like it's more likely somebody else committed the crime than you, even if you have a motive…
And for an instant, unseen by the officers, Lawrence cast a glance toward Carolyn, a look that could only be described as amused. Then, as she began screaming at him in fury, slamming her shackled wrists against the window, his eyes went dull again and he covered them with shaking hands. "Oh, Lorrie… Lorrie… I just don't believe it! No, no, no…"
Eye to Eye
I'd help you if I could," the boy said. "But I can't."
"Can't, hmm?" Boz asked, standing over him. Peering down at the top of the brown cowlick. "Can't? Or do
n't wanta?"
His partner, Ed, said, "Yup, he knows something."
"Don't doubt it," Boz added, hooking his thumb around his $79.99 police baton, genuine imported and gleaming black.
"No, Boz. I don't. Really. Come on."
An engine-block-hot dusk. It was August in the Shenandoah Valley and the broad river rolling by outside the window of the sheriff's department interview room didn't do anything to take the edge off the temperature. Other towns, the heat had the locals cutting up and cutting loose. But Caldon, Virginia, about ten miles from Luray — yeah, that's the one, home of the cave — was a small place, population 8,400. Heat this bad usually sent most of the bikers, trash and teens home to their bungalows and trailers, where they stared, groggy from joints or Bud, at HBO or ESPN (satellite dishes being significant anticrime measures out here).
But tonight was different. The deputies had been yanked from their own stupors by the town's first armed robbery/shooting in four years — an honest-to-God armored-car stickup, no less. Sheriff Elm Tappin was grudgingly en route back from a fishing trip in North Carolina and FBI agents from D.C. were due later tonight as well.
Which wasn't going to stop these two from wrapping up the case themselves. They had a suspect in the lockup and, here in front of them, an eyewitness. Reluctant though he was.
Ed sat down across from Nate Spoda. They called him boy behind his back, but he wasn't a boy at all. He was in his mid-twenties and only three years younger than the deputies themselves. They'd all been at Nathaniel Hawthorne High together for a year, Nate a freshman, the other two seniors. Nate was still skinny as a post, had eyes darty and sunken as any serial killer's and was known throughout town for being as ooky now as he was in high school.
"Now, Nate," Ed said kindly, "we know you saw something."
"Come on," the boy said in a whiny voice, fingers drumming uneasily on his bony knee. "I didn't. Really."
Boz, the fat cop, the breathless cop, the sweaty cop, took over when his partner glanced at him. "Nate, that just don't jibe with what we know. You sit on your front porch and you spend hours and hours and hours not doing diddly. Just sitting there, watching the river." He paused, wiped his forehead. "Why d'you do that?" he asked curiously.
"I don't know."
Though everybody in town knew the answer. Which was that when Nate was in junior high, his parents had drowned in a boating accident on the very river the boy would gaze out at all day long while he read books and magazines (Frances at the post office said he subscribed to some "excruciatingly" odd mags, about which she couldn't say more, being a federal employee and all) and listened to some sick music, which he played too loud. After his parents' deaths an uncle had come to stay with the boy — a slimy old guy from West Virginia no less (well, the whole town had an opinion on that living arrangement). He'd seen the boy through high school and when Nate hit eighteen, off the kid went to college. Four years later Ed and Boz had served their stint in the service, becoming all they could be, and were back home. And who showed up that June, surprising them and the rest of the town? Yep, Nate. He booted his uncle back west and took to living by himself in that dark, spooky house overlooking the river, surviving, they guessed, on his folks' savings account (nobody in Caldon ever amassed anything that lived up to the word inheritance).
The deputies hadn't liked Nate in high school. Not the way he dressed or the way he walked or the way he didn't comb his hair (which was too damn long, scary long). They didn't like the way he talked to the other kids, in a sick whisper. Didn't like the way he talked to girls, not healthy ways, not joking or gossiping, but just talking soft, in that weird way that kind of hypnotized them. He'd been in French Club. He'd been in Computer Club. Chess Club, for Christ's sake. Of course he didn't go out for a single sport, and just think about all those times in class when nobody could answer Mrs. Hard-On's question and Nate — the school'd advanced the nerd bone-whacker a couple years — would sashay up to the board to write the right answer in his fag handwriting, getting chalk dust all over himself. Then just turn back to the class and everybody'd stop snickering, 'cause of his scary eyes. Got picked on some, sure. Got his Keds boloed over the high-tension wires. But who didn't? Besides, he asked for it. Sitting on his porch, reading books (probably porn) and listening to this eerie music (probably satanic, another deputy had suggested)… Well, sir, he was simply unnatural.
And speaking of natural: Every time a report of a sex crime came in, Boz and Ed thought of Nate. They'd never been able to pin anything on him but he'd disappear for long periods of time and the deputies were pretty sure he'd vanish into the woods and fields around Luray to peer through girls' bedroom windows (or more likely boys'). They knew Nate was a voyeur; he had a telescope on his porch, next to the rocker he always sat in — his mother's chair (and, yep, the whole town had an opinion about that too). Unnatural. Yep, that was the word.
So the Caldon Sheriff's Department deputies — Ed and Boz at least — never missed a chance to do their part to, well, set Nate straight. Just like they'd done in high school. They'd see him buying groceries and they'd smile and say, "Need a hand?" Meaning: Why don'tcha get married, homo?
Or he'd be bicycling up Rayburn Hill and they'd come up behind him in their cruiser and hit the siren and shout over the loudspeaker, "On your left!" Which'd once scared him clean into some blackberry bushes.
But he never took the hints. He just kept doing what he was doing, wearing a dark trench coat most of the time, living his shameful life and walking out of Ed's and Boz's way when he ran into them on Main Street. Just like in the halls of Hawthorne High.
So it felt pretty good, Ed had to admit, having him trapped in the interview room. Scared and twitchy and damp in the summer heat.
"He had to've walked right by you," Boz continued in his grumbling voice. "You must've seen him."
"Uhm. I didn't."
Him was Lester Botts, presently sitting unshaven and stinking in the nearby lockup. The scruffy thirty-five-year-old loser had been a sore spot to the Caldon Sheriff's Department for years. He'd never been convicted of anything but the deputies knew he was behind a lot of the petty crimes around the country. He was white trash, gave the nasty eyeball to the good girls in town and wasn't even a lip-service Christian.
Lester was currently the number-one suspect in this evening's robbery. He had no alibi for five to six p.m. — the time of the heist. And though the armored car's driver and his partner hadn't seen his face, what with the ski mask, the robber'd carried a nickel-plated Colt revolver — exactly the type of gun that Lester had drunkenly brandished at Irv's Roadside not long ago. And there'd been a report last week that somebody with Lester's build had stolen a half pound of Tovex from Amundson Construction. Which was the same explosive used to blow the door off the Armored Courier truck. At six-thirty tonight they'd picked him up — he was sweating a storm and acting plenty guilty — hitching home along Route 334, even though he had a perfectly good Chevy pickup at home, which fired up the first time Ed turned the key, just to test out if Lester's claim that it "wasn't runnin' " was true. He'd also been carrying a long hunting knife and fumbled the answer when they'd asked him why ("Well, I just, you know, am.")
The sheriff's department Procedure Manual had explained all about motive, means and opportunity in investigating felonies. Boz and Ed had scoped all that out in this case. It was sweet and simple. No, there was no doubt in their minds that Lester had done the job. And because Nate's property was on a direct line from the heist to where they picked up Lester, there was also no doubt that Nate could place him near the scene of the crime.
Boz sighed. "Just tell us you saw him."
"But I didn't. That wouldn't be the truth."
Nerd then, nerd now. Christ…
"Look, Nate," Boz continued, as if speaking to a five-year-old. "Maybe you don't get how serious this is. Lester whacked the driver of that armored car over the head with a wrench while he was peeing in the men's room at the Texaco on Route Four. The
n he went out to the truck, shot the driver's partner in the side —"
"Oh, no. Is he okay?"
"Nobody's okay, they get shot in the side," Boz spat out. "Lemme finish."
"Sorry."
"Then drives the truck to Morton Woods Road, blows the back door off. He loads the money into another car and takes off, heading west — directly toward your place. We pick Lester up on the other side of your property a hour ago. He had to go past your house to get to where we found him. What d'you think about that?"
"I think it… Well, it seems like it makes sense. But I didn't see him. I'm sorry."
Boz reflected for a minute. "Nate, look," he finally said, "we just don't see eye to eye here."
"Eye to eye?" Nate asked uncertainly.
"You're in a different world from us," the deputy continued, exasperated. "We know the kinda man Lester is. We live in that sewer every day."
"Sewer?"
"You're thinking you'll just clam up and everything'll be okay," Ed filled in. "But that's not how it'll work. We know Lester. We know what he's capable of."
"What's that?" Nate asked. Trying to sound brave. But his hands were clenched, trembling, in his lap.
"Using his damn knife on you, what d'you think?" Boz shouted. "Jesus. You really don't get it, do you?"
They were doing the good- and bad-cop thing. The Procedure Manual had a whole section on it.
"Say you don't finger him now," Ed offered gently. "He gets off. How long you think it'll take for him to find you?"
" 'Cause he thinks I'm a witness, you mean?"
"Find you and gut you," Boz snapped. "Why, it'll be no time at all. And I'm beginning not to care."
"Come on," Ed said to his partner. "Let's go easy on the poor kid." Then looked at Nate's frightened face. "But if we get him for armed robbery and attempted murder… He'll go away for thirty years. You'll be safe."
"I want to do the right thing," Nate said. "But…" His voice trailed off.
Twisted: The Collected Short Stories of Jeffery Deaver Page 11
