Doug Childers was Sheriff Johnson’s nephew. He was nearsighted, a bad shot, as weak as a rabbit, and a bully to the people he stopped. He never would have been hired if Johnson weren’t his uncle.
Nick also suspected that Johnson had sent his nephew down here to keep an eye on him, to make sure he didn’t work on the campaign while he was on duty. Which, in this rural area, was twenty-four hours a day.
If that were the case, then Dougie wasn’t doing his job. He was too busy looking for illegals.
Angry, Nick grabbed his radio. He pressed the button and opened his mouth to speak before reining in his temper.
It wouldn’t help. And it could hurt a lot. Nick thought that Doug Childers wasn’t above telling lies about him, lies that SheriffJohnson would have no trouble believing.
Nick drove on to the end of the road, which halted at the border fence—four strands of barbed wire strung to red-and-white metal fenceposts. As usual, the wire had been cut. Nick wondered if the cars Delbert had been hearing belonged to Childers’ aliens, or even Childers’ own vehicle as he drove aimlessly around the county.
Nick did take a look around and saw at least two kinds of truck tires and footprints in the dust. The other tire tracks led into Mexico. Could they belong to the tan truck Del had seen last week? The truck belonging to the paramilitary type who used a cellular phone?
It could be anyone from drug dealers to coyotes to members of some right-wing extremist group.
He turned around and drove back toward the station. Whatever deal had happened here, he’d been a day late and a dollar short.
He was almost to the turn-off to Palo Duro when dispatch called him.
“We have a report of a body found at the Hotel Sonora,” Lupita said. “All units, if you’re anywhere near the area, please respond.”
Turning on the lights and siren, Nick floored the accelerator and fishtailed onto the highway.
He had a terrible feeling whose body he would find there.
Caroline had received cards from the stalker, and so had Alex Cafarelli. Here he’d been wasting his time placating old Delbert and completely ignored the fact that whoever had been stalking Caroline was now after Alex.
He should have done something. But he’d thought Booker Purlie had cleared out for good—had been convinced of it.
Ahead, the hotel gleamed like a white bone in the moonlight. A mausoleum.
He slammed the truck into park and thrust open the door, taking the steps two at a time to the entrance. Zapped, a sizzling bug glanced off his cheek like a french fry.
He nearly knocked over a young couple in his haste to reach the desk clerk. The clerk’s eyes widened in recognition. “Thank God you’re here. They found a body at one of the movie peoples’ trailers. I’ll show you.” He bustled out from behind the desk, a small man who walked briskly, shoulders set with self-importance.
Oleanders surrounded the hotel parking lot. The poisonous plants swayed and whispered, their dark leaves gleaming in the mercury-vapor light like knives. Nick thrust through a break in the foliage, his mind running a hundred miles a minute. He’d know soon if he’d failed to protect her.
They crossed the small patch of desert, sand and rocks and low clumps of burroweed growing in herds like sheep. It was easy to spot the trailer. The noise alone would have tipped him off. A crowd massed around a seventeen-footer at the far end of the regiment of RVs. Someone had flooded the area with artificial daylight from an HMI light.
They were trampling the scene the same way they had when Caroline was shot. At the time it hadn’t seemed important, because at the time Caroline had been walking around, laughing and joking, and it hadn’t been a homicide.
Nick couldn’t think beyond that. The fear that it was Alex in that trailer drenched him like ice water. He could hardly breathe.
“Step back,” he said. Secure the scene, his numbed mind told him.
He motioned everyone away. The open trailer door swayed lightly in the desert breeze. Beyond it, he could see the bathroom cubicle. The sight of the corpse, lit by the HMI’s garishly simulated daylight, burned into his brain in stark and memorable detail.
Thirteen
CAROLINE’S STALKER KILLS SELF TO SPARE NEXT VICTIM
—GLOBE Magazine
Grey Sullivan’s motor home was still warm from being closed up during the day. Nick opened some windows and turned to Alex Cafarelli. “That all right?”
She nodded, her face white. Too polite to say that nothing was right.
When he saw her standing in the crowd, something had crumbled inside his chest. Even though he knew the corpse hanging in the trailer belonged to a man, seeing Alex alive and healthy finally got through to him on a visceral level. He’d been so sure from the moment the dispatch had come over the radio that Alex had been the next victim of Caroline’s stalker.
Now he watched her, trying to assimilate her image into his being. She sat on the couch near the door, her baggy, gray-green shorts belling out over shapely, tanned legs leading to black-and-purple Teva sandals. She had some wildlife T-shirt on, white against her dusky skin. Her face was a frightened oval, her eyes wide with fear. He wanted to pull her to him, comfort her. Had to remind himself she was, at the very least, a witness, and at the very worst, a potential suspect.
He wanted to put her at ease, but small talk didn’t seem appropriate. “You told me someone had roses delivered to your room. How did you know they were from Booker?”
“I guess I assumed. There wasn’t a card with them. But after the greeting card … ” She trailed off.
He’d call the flower shop first thing tomorrow, but doubted he’d get a real name. “On your way to the trailer you ran into Ted Lang.” A voice in his head—one he didn’t like—pondered the nature of her relationship with Ted. “After that, what happened?”
“We went to the trailer. I think it was Ted who knocked.”
“And then?”
“Ted pushed on the door, and it ... opened. We went in.” She fumbled with her room key. “I know that’s against the law.”
“Don’t worry about that. What happened next?”
“We were looking around.” She seemed to have difficulty framing her sentences, couldn’t seem to concentrate.
He leaned forward. “Alex, I know this is hard for you. No one should have had to see what you saw tonight. Take your time. Do you remember how long you were in the trailer before you discovered the body?”
She frowned. “Three, maybe five minutes?”
“How did that come about—finding the body? Was the shower door open?”
“No. Ted opened it. He had to go to the bathroom.”
“Can you remember where you were standing?”
Alex stared at her key, but he could tell she was seeing another landscape, one of unfathomable horror. “I was in the aisle near the sink. Ted opened the door and I saw Booker’s hand.”
“Did Ted block your view at all?”
“No. He stepped back, scared—I had a clear view.” She turned troubled eyes to him. “At first I thought he’d hanged himself, but his feet were on the floor.”
Like most people, Alex Cafarelli pictured hanging the way it was done in the movies—a person suspended from a beam or a tree, feet dangling off the ground. Nick explained that suicides by hanging were often committed leaning, sitting, kneeling, or even lying down.
His best friend in high school had done it kneeling down. Mike Camacho had killed himself because his girlfriend dumped him, because his grades were marginal and he came from a family of overachievers, or maybe just because he listened to too much heavy metal. Nick often wondered: if Mike had gotten over the hump and made it beyond those turbulent years of adolescence, would he have gone on to live a full life? Nick thought he might have, although he’d never know for sure.
Alex asked, “Wouldn’t Booker stand up to keep from choking? How did he have the willpower to kill himself like that?”
Nick tried not to think about Mike. �
�He probably just leaned against the belt, and the pressure kept blood from getting to the brain. When he lost consciousness, the full weight of his body would have cut off oxygen to his brain completely, and then he would have died. It’s relatively painless.” At least, for Mike’s sake, he hoped so.
Alex shivered. “Do you know how long he was there?”
“We can only estimate. There are a lot of factors—the heat, the closed-up trailer. When you went to the trailer, what did you plan to say to him if he had been there?”
“I didn’t really think that far ahead, but I guess I’d ask him to stop harassing me.”
“You think he would have?”
“Would have what? Stopped?” She thought about it. “No.”
“Going back to the day Booker accosted you, what did he say exactly?”
“It was just so much raving. From what I could gather, he was upset that Caroline hadn’t told me ... something. And then when Ted came and rescued me, he started in on him.”
“What did he say?”
Alex thought hard for a minute. “Something about how he knew Caroline had told Ted and that Ted couldn’t deny it.” She pushed a strand of hair from her face. “I think he was trying to get me to tell him that Caroline had confided in me. Maybe he wanted to hear from me that Caroline did love him. But why would he kill her? Why would he fixate on me?”
“I don’t know,” said Nick.
As he watched her leave, a heaviness lodged beneath his solar plexis. She’d experienced two deaths in six days, and all he could think about was finding some way to ask her out.
“I’ll certainly try to help.” Ted sat down on the couch Alex had occupied earlier.
He’d asked Alex to wait for him. Nick McCutcheon could see her outside the window, sitting on a rock and staring out at the dark. Beside her, black ocotillo branches quivered in the wind like pipe cleaners against the star-speckled sky. “Mr. Lang, how did you end up going with Ms. Cafarelli to see Booker?”
“I saw her over near the Jagged Impact RVs on my way back from watching the dailies. She seemed upset. When she said she was looking for Booker, I decided I’d better go with her.” He explained that they had knocked on the door and it had “sort of sprung open.” Ted grinned ruefully. “It was just too tempting and I figured it wouldn’t hurt anything. Alex didn’t want to,” he added quickly. “I talked her into it.”
“Did you know Booker Purlie well?”
“Only to say hello to. Management doesn’t really fraternize with the crew.”
“What part of management are you on this film?”
“Associate producer.”
“How long have you been working in that capacity?”
“From day one. I helped write the script before there was even any money.”
Nick switched gears. “Management doesn’t fraternize with the crew, but what about the cast?”
“I wasn’t around, but Caroline knew Booker. I knew he had a crush on my wife.”
“Have you ever talked to Booker Purlie?”
“Just to say ‘hi,’ like I said.”
“Ms. Cafarelli says you talked to him in the restaurant when he was bothering her.”
“Oh, yes. Booker was being a pest. I told him that Caro was dead and whatever he was ranting about didn’t matter anymore.”
“Did you know what he was talking about?”
Ted stared at him blankly. “I just assumed he was raving.”
“Because he was delusional.”
“He’s schizophrenic. Hears voices, I think.”
“Why do you think he killed himself.?”
“Me?” Ted touched his chest. “I don’t know what went on in that mind, couldn’t begin to know, but my guess is he transferred his obsession from Caro to Alex. I know he was tortured. I don’t think he wanted to kill Caro; he just couldn’t handle the rejection. He was obsessed with her. I think he killed himself to keep from hurting Alex.”
“When Booker was bothering Ms. Cafarelli that day, how did he seem?”
“Belligerent. Full of rage.”
“Was Booker the only person to have a crush on your wife?”
Ted leaned forward attentively—the bright kid in school who wants to get the answer right. “I’m sure there were others, but I can’t think of any right now.”
“I’ve heard the rumor that Caroline and her costar, Luther van Cleeve, were more than just friends.”
Ted’s face closed up. “No way.”
He persisted. “You haven’t heard that rumor?”
“No.” Ted’s answer was unequivocal. “And I don’t see what that has to do with this investigation.”
Nick nodded, keeping his expression neutral.
“It’s obvious to me what happened. Booker stalked and killed my wife, and then he turned his sick, twisted obsession to Alex. He couldn’t face what he’d done, so he killed himself.”
“Do you know Caroline’s astrologer?”
“Lana? She’s a great kid.”
“Did Caroline say anything to you about shooting that scene on her birthday? What her astrologer told her?”
Ted looked mystified. “I don’t think so.”
“Were you aware of the shooting schedule?”
“I was in Italy! I’ve got my own movie to think about.” He thought for a moment. “Sometimes Caro would tell me what they were doing the next day. What’s Lana got to do with this?”
“I guess it’s just a strange coincidence,” Nick murmured. He stood up and held out his hand. “Thanks for your cooperation, Ted. Will you be going back to Italy?”
Ted looked at him blankly. “Why?”
“To finish your film.”
“Oh. That project’s deep-sixed. Especially now that I’m associate producer on Jagged Impact. I’m just glad this whole nightmare’s over.” He shook his head. “Well, almost over. They’re still dragging their feet over in Mexico. Do you know anyone over there—someone who could help me?”
Nick sighed. “No one who could do any good. If I were you, I’d offer them a bribe.”
“A bribe?” He looked shocked.
“Mordida. If you give the Mexican officials enough money, you’ll get Caroline’s body back right away.”
“But that’s extortion!”
Nick shrugged. “It depends on what you think’s important.”
After Ted left, Nick swiveled the motor home’s driver’s seat back and forth, thinking about Booker Purlie’s death. Ted Lang had encapsulated his own theory beautifully. Booker was watching the prop table that day. Phil Curry had been called away, leaving Booker a clear field. Maybe Booker had gone off on an errand, made the call to Phil, and doubled back. It would only take a minute to switch magazines in a semi-automatic. The only thing that bothered him was the fact that Caroline had changed the day of the shoot to her birthday. Because her astrologer had told her to?
Stupid to get hung up on a little detail like that, but there you were.
“It was really insulting, the insinuations he was making about Caro.” Ted told Alex as they crossed the desert to the hotel.
“But you said they were having an affair.”
“He doesn’t have to know that.”
“You lied?”
“Jeez, Alex, it was just a white lie. I don’t want her name dragged through the dirt anymore. He had no right to even know about it.”
“You can’t cover it up forever, Ted. If there are rumors, if Deputy McCutcheon knows—”
Ted took her arm and steered her toward the gap in the oleanders. Alex resented being led, but she kept quiet.
“It had nothing to do with Booker,” Ted said. “So why should I admit it? Never apologize and never explain. That’s my motto.”
“You’re withholding information in a murder investigation.” She managed to slink out from under his hold.
“It doesn’t have any bearing on what Booker did. Do you have any idea how I feel? What’s it’s like to be a cuckold? I loved Caro, Alex. With all my
heart. I feel so betrayed, so helpless. She’s dead and I can’t even talk things through with her. It’s too late for us, but I don’t want every insensitive clod with a badge and a flashlight trampling around on her grave making her look bad. Caroline wasn’t responsible for what she did because Luther seduced her, but it hurts just the same. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
Fair enough, Alex thought.
“Oh no,” Ted said, looking back over his shoulder. “The media’s spotted us. We’d better make a run for it.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her across the parking lot.
Fortunately, they had a head start. Alex tripped on the flagstone step up to the side entrance, but Ted held her steady. “My room’s closest,” he said in her ear as they gained the hallway.
A cacophony of running footsteps, shouted questions, and ragged breathing hammered at her ears. Before Alex knew it, they were on one side of the door and the media was on the other.
Ted still clasped her hand in his. Suddenly self-conscious, Alex pulled it free.
She didn’t miss the flare of hurt in Ted’s eyes. Did he think she was rejecting him somehow? “I just had to get my breath. They’re tenacious, aren’t they?”
Ted smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Alex. Just because I held your hand doesn’t mean I’m out to—”
“I know that.” Feeling like a prude, she rushed on. “I’m just jumpy, that’s all. After seeing Booker like that.”
Ted’s smile almost ached. “I understand. I’m really messed up about this, too. But I hope you know that I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable.”
The genuine concern in his gaze shamed her; she felt like a conceited fool. Of course he wasn’t attracted to her. He’d just lost his wife. She was overreacting again. She’d been distrustful of men since Brian left her, always second-guessing their motives.
She thought of her almost-hysterical reaction to Barry what’s- his-name’s presence at Quartz Springs. Paranoid.
When he took her hands in his this time, she didn’t flinch. He squeezed her palms once and let go, his eyes never leaving her face. “Friends?”
The Desert Waits Page 13
