Chris cut her eyes at Ray. She asked, “She was a busy kid. Isn’t that a lot to take on?”
“Participation in four major extracurricular activities is a lot,” Rona admitted. “I would never advise a student to do more than three, but Larkin is driven. She pushes herself to the limit.”
Ray asked, “Is it possible she pushed someone too hard yesterday?”
“Not at school.” Rona immediately jumped to Larkin Sloan’s defense. She clutched the tissue as if she wanted to break something.
“All right, Rona,” Ray said in an attempt to placate the woman’s protective mode. He could sense she really did have a motherly affection for the young teacher. “You were telling me about Miss Sloan’s background.” I can’t imagine her singing the lead in a musical having any bearing on the case. I don’t recall any of the others having a talent like that. He said, “Continue.” He made a note to check for special artistic talents for the other victims.
“She attended Mississippi College on full scholarship.” The woman’s voice took on an air of fantasy in Ray’s mind. He and Chris exchanged looks.
Chris was tempted to tell the woman to stick to the facts of the day before, but she bit her tongue and let Dr. Fairchild ramble just in case she shared some small tidbit of importance. “She worked as youth minister at Cornerstone Church, a nondenominational church, while she was in college. She majored in education and double minored in literature and history. She graduated Summa Cum Laude.”
“Summa?” Ray asked. He leaned forward and scribbled a note to himself. Check other women’s GPA. Maybe killer hates smart women.
Chris said what Ray thought, “With all the other stuff she was involved in, she graduated Summa? She must be a genius.” Her voice held a note of cynicism. “Go on.”
“She is very intelligent,” Dr. Fairchild reiterated, drawing her mouth into a thin line as she turned to face Chris. “Everything she endured was what swayed me to hire her in the first place. I thought if she could handle all that, she could deal with juvenile offenders. Larkin came to St. Ignatius the fall after she graduated. She has been with me five years. While here, she has taught ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth grade English; journalism; social studies; creative writing; drama; music; and gifted, believe it or not, we have some gifted kids with serious behavioral or legal problems.”
“All of those different subjects? How?” asked Ray.
“Not all at the same time, of course.” Dr. Fairchild gave the detective a scornful look. Her tone made Ray cringe inside. He could feel the wooden ruler the nuns used smacking the palm of his hand. He felt seriously reprimanded. “She now teaches English, all four levels, journalism, and choir. She has started a newspaper and a choir. Our classes are quite small, so we don’t have the population to even consider sports, or I’m sure she would’ve pushed at least a soccer team to coach. She coaches at the Y. Larkin believes that although these kids are in an alternative school setting, they should have opportunities to shine. Her strategies have been very successful. Most of her students have gone back to regular school and eighty percent have gone on to graduate. I told you, she’s brilliant.”
“She sounds too good to be real, Dr. Fairchild,” Chris said from behind Rona.
“In some ways she is,” admitted Dr. Fairchild. “She’s not perfect. I’ve seen her throw little tantrums when she thought nobody was watching. She has a temper and is stubborn. She kicked the copier yesterday because it was broken.”
Ray chuckled. “It’s good to know she’s human,” he said. “Please, tell us whatever else you think we should know.”
Chris, her eyes stretched wide, gave him a look that said—Cut to the chase.
He knitted his brows together and barely shook his head. Chris narrowed her eyes to slits and clenched her jaw. Ray could almost hear his partner’s teeth grind.
“Very well,” said Dr. Fairchild, oblivious to the silent communication. “She received her Master of Education from Belhaven College by taking courses during the summer, and we’ve discussed her getting her doctorate.
“I know she attends Charity Chapel, a nondenominational church where she works with the kids’ Sunday school program. She lives in an antebellum house that she bought and is restoring. The house was wired for electricity in the 1950s, and nobody had lived in it for ten years before Larkin bought it.” She passed Ray a piece of paper with the address on it. “Her roommate is named Cyclops. He’s a scarred, one-eyed black cat she rescued from an animal shelter after Hurricane Katrina. He was scheduled to be put down, but stole her heart, just as Larkin has stolen all our hearts at St. Ignatius.
“She doesn’t have a steady boyfriend although she’s absolutely beautiful. I happen to know she does go out from time to time. She loves seafood, Mexican food, and margaritas.”
“Can you write a description for us?” the detective asked.
“I can go you one better. I brought her picture from her ID badge that stays on file in the school system’s computer data base.”
Ray took the picture, and the strangest thought occurred to him. If this woman is this pretty in a mug shot, what does she look like in person?
Ray brought himself back to reality. “This is quite helpful. We’ll get Miss Sloan’s picture circulating immediately. Chris and I will start talking to people as soon as I shower and shave. I must look a fright to you, Dr. Fairchild, but I’ve been working almost around the clock. I apologize for my appearance.”
“Detective, I understand.” With her hand that clutched the Kleenex, she pointed toward the photographs of graduations and awards, along with diplomas on the wall. “You seem to be pretty driven yourself, B.S. in Criminal Justice from LSU, Master’s of Sociology from Southeastern Louisiana.”
“That was online,” he hastened to say.
“Still, you did the work. Plus, you got an EMT certification and a commendation for valor. Were you shot?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Chris noisily slapped her notepad on her lap.
Dr. Fairchild scowled at her. “Do whatever it takes to get Larkin back safely. If you need to speak to the other teachers, let me know the day before you come, and I’ll get a floating sub so you can to talk to everybody.” She wadded the tissue Ray had given her earlier and dropped it in the wastebasket by his desk. “If you need to speak to the minor students, let me know so I can have parents or guardians present. But I don’t think your criminal is among us.”
Chris asked, “Dr. Fairchild, honestly, what does her background have to do with her being missing now?”
“I don’t know. That’s your job,” Rona spat. “You told me to tell you what I thought was important.”
“How is what she did as a teenager important to this case?” Chris pressed. “Give me something current. A name. Anything that pops into your head.”
Rona creased her brow. “Maybe I’m overly attached. I’ve never been able to have children. Larkin’s the daughter I never had.” She sighed. “I know you two must be grasping at straws. She’s gone out several times with a guy named Brad Tisdale, but I don’t think anything will come of it.”
“Thank you,” said Chris. “That could be a starting point.”
“He’s an engineer, but he works offshore. I don’t even know if he’s home now.”
“We’ll find out,” Chris said.
Dr. Fairchild stood and shook hands with both Ray and Chris. Ray assured Rona as best he could, “I’ll call you with any scheduling or information. Thank you.”
With a nod, Dr. Fairchild left.
♣♣♣
Ray turned to Chris. “Another paragon of virtue. Is that the connection, Chris? Are they all angels in disguise? Well, I’ll be damned if I let this angel suffer the hell the others did.”
Chris tapped her notes with the pen she held. “Really smart, religious, do-gooder.”
Beautiful. Ray shuddered and shrugged. “We’ll see. Will you, please, get us some breakfast while I shower?”
“Sure,�
�� said Chris as calmly as ever while grabbing her purse and heading out the door.
“Nothing sweet! Real breakfast!” Ray called after her. He picked up Larkin Sloan’s picture before he headed to the showers. He looked at her soft features and glanced at the description Dr. Fairchild had written on back: five feet, two inches, 100 pounds, auburn hair, brown eyes, double pierced ears, perfect teeth. Ray thought again that if all he had heard and seen of Larkin Sloan were true, she was too perfect. He sighed.
He laid everything down and headed to the showers. As he went, he thought: Larkin. Now, that would be an angel’s name.
4
Feeling of Futility
Ray showered and shaved quickly, which resulted in several nicks. He kept unopened packages of undershirts, boxers, and socks in his locker. The time had come to open them. He felt cleaner even in the same Levis he had been wearing. He finger-combed short black hair, used some of the communal mouthwash, looked at his reflection and grumbled, “Good enough. Now I have to make a phone call. Damn it.”
At his desk, he dialed FBI headquarters...and waited. Finally off hold, he demanded assistance in what he had dubbed his “Angel Slayer” case as he’d showered.
Chris returned bearing two full southern breakfasts with juice and coffee. She caught one side of Ray’s heated conversation.
“Look, it’s apparent that you pompous, big-shot assholes in Washington care very little about the goings-on in a little back bayou Louisiana town like Eau Bouease you think is filled with moronic inbred Coonasses…I know I have Chris, and she’s terrific, but we cannot do this alone.” As if tapping out the number, he rhythmically drummed a pen on his desk in frustration. “We have twelve dead women, and a thirteenth is missing…Yeah, right. I would put money on the fact that you would have an entire platoon at work if these murders were taking place within the city of New Orleans…Yeah, I think I have the solution. It’s time to go to the press about your lack of support. I bet they’ll be very accommodating, seeing as how one of their own was one of the victims…What’s that?....It’s about fucking time!” Ray slammed the receiver down.
“Give ’em hell, Ray!” Chris shouted. “What’s about time? Finally more help?”
“Yeah. They said a team of investigators including a profiler will be coming in about a week. They have to put a team together. I still want it yesterday.”
He grinned and motioned Chris to the desk. “Let’s eat. I need sustenance.
“How’s the head?”
He raised his hand. “Just don’t talk loudly. I think I’ll feel better after I eat.”
♣♣♣
After a hearty breakfast, Ray’s headache became just a throbbing nuisance. He flipped through his notes. “Fairchild said she talked to the ER doctor, but that’s our first stop. There are two cab companies in town.” He opened the phonebook and located both numbers. Handing them to Chris on a scrap of paper, he said, “Track the cabbie while I drive.”
The FBI agent had success with the second number. One of their drivers had been assaulted and had his cab stolen. Chris got a name and address. “We’ll run with this one.” She waggled the scrap of paper in the air.
When they arrived at the hospital, Ray and Chris spoke with Dr. Bixby who vaguely remembered a slender dark-haired driver when Larkin got into the cab, but that was all. He said, “I didn’t get a good look at the driver’s face.”
Ray demanded, “We need to see the security video from just before the time Larkin Sloan signed in until you saw her leave in the cab.”
Dr. Bixby said, “Follow me. I’ll take you to the chief of security.”
They followed the doctor down several hallways. Eager to help any way he could when he heard what was needed, the security chief found the correct tape and gave it to the police.
Chris lifted an eyebrow. “VCR? Not digital?”
Ray and Chris watched the images on a VCR in the security office. Ray pointed. “Larkin arriving with Mr. Manning.”
“He’s being very protective,” Chris muttered.
Tapping the screen, she said, “How much time? Half a minute? There’s a cab.”
About a minute after the cab stopped, the passenger, wearing a hooded sweat shirt and jeans, got out, opened the driver’s door, pushed the apparent driver gently to the passenger side of the car, and slid into the driver’s seat. The cab left.
Ray sat forward. “I can’t see his face.”
“He was avoiding the camera,” Chris said. “He has on golfing gloves.”
“Looks like it. Damn it! No prints, but those looked like expensive gloves.” He glanced at Chris. “Our kook plays golf.”
The hood of the cab appeared back in the frame, but they could see nothing more of the driver. When Larkin Sloan left, she went directly to the cab. It backed up and left the area.
“That was too damned strange,” groaned Ray. “Chris, do you have the same feeling of futility as I do?”
“It’s frustrating Ray, but we’ll get there. There’s something off about a man who’s a killer. Did you notice how gently he moved the driver?”
“Yeah, but he wasn’t after him.”
“Maybe,” said the FBI agent not in total agreement with the detective.
Ray held up the tape. “We have to take this one.”
“Of course,” the security officer agreed. “Just sign the proper form.” The hospital employee pulled out a form for the detective to sign. Ray slipped the tape into a manila envelope and labeled it.
“Next stop?” Chris asked in the parking lot.
Ray held up a finger. He walked to where the cab had been parked and looked around carefully. “Nothing. I was hoping for a cigarette butt or gum wrapper.”
He turned to his partner. “Larkin’s house, just in case the cab took her home and she passed out from the pain killers or had an allergic reaction.”
“Right.” Chris nodded with pursed lips. “If nothing else, we might learn something more about the too-perfect Larkin Sloan.”
“Then, Dupree,” Ray said, getting into his car. “My gut tells me he knows something.”
♣♣♣
Ray and Chris drove to the antebellum house owned by Larkin Sloan. Located in an historical part of town and set rather far from the nearest neighbor, the house, surrounded by a picket fence, looked like a picture postcard. The grass was neatly clipped. Chrysanthemums lined the walkway. The snow-white paint with charcoal shutters and trim was fresh. The wide, inviting veranda above steep stone steps supported a porch swing at one end and two old-fashioned rocking chairs with a wicker table between them at the other. All along the porch eve hung wind chimes in a multitude of sizes of varying materials. The gentle breeze created a relaxing, soothing symphony. The high-pitched tinkle of the seashells combined with the hollow, discordant bump of bamboo and the low metallic clank of copper pipe produced a calm, which Ray inhaled, surveying the front porch. Chris looked at him as he breathed deeply with his eyes closed. It’s so peaceful here. I haven’t felt this connected and serene in almost a year.
“Ray?” Chris nudged him with her elbow.
“Sorry.”
Ray tried the front door while Chris tried the back door and a side door. All were locked, as were all the windows. There was no response to resounding knocks and several pulls on the velvet bell cord.
Lifting the edge of the welcome mat, “Not that obvious,” he remarked. “Now, where would this woman hide a spare key?”
“Nowhere,” Chris grunted with a scowl. “Not safe.”
“This is the South where we still want to believe in the goodness of our fellow man.” Cynicism oozed. He looked around and laughed. “In plain sight, of course.” One of the wind chimes consisted of a dozen keys jingling together. Ray cupped the keys in his hand. “Which one is it, Chris?”
The agent examined the keys before choosing an antique brass key. “This one. It looks like the easiest one to get off.”
Ray slipped the key off its small hook. It fit the fron
t door lock perfectly. Ray and Chris stepped through the door into a foyer that made them feel as if they had entered a time warp and were in the 1860s before war had torn the country apart and devastated the South. Nothing in the vestibule would have made them believe they were in 2008. The floors, the furniture, even the rug seemed to be in mint antebellum condition. Stepping into the living room let the two know they were still in the twenty-first century and the owner’s adventure in the restoration of the old house was far from complete. A mixture of a few antiques with many modern conveniences, including a computer, returned the pair to reality. The only thing in perfect antique condition was the polished hardwood flooring.
Ray was suddenly startled by a bump against his leg and a gravely meow. He bent down and picked up the animal. “Hi there, Cyclops.” The cat’s one eye was bright blue, almost like his own. “Appropriate name. She’s not here, is she?”
Cyclops let out a loud meow.
“No, and you feel scared, too. You don’t know what will become of you without her. I tell you what: You can go home with me until we find her.”
Chris stared. “Ray, have you lost your mind?”
“No. This animal would be dead without his mistress. I’ll keep him safe for her until she comes home.” Rona’s suspicions are right on target. She really does know Larkin.
“What if…”
The detective shook his head vehemently. “Don’t even say it.”
“Ray.”
“I mean it, Chris. This one gets saved. Let’s look around, but I think it’s pointless. There’s nothing here to tell us where she is.”
Ray and Chris discovered only two bedrooms were furnished, one clearly an unused guest room. The other, which showed signs of use and had its own private bath, had to be the one Larkin used. In an otherwise pristine house, the bed was unmade. Ray looked down and saw a brown pump and a black pump. He pointed. “She left in a hurry.” He dipped his head toward the still-blinking alarm clock. “I bet she overslept and got dressed in the dark. Remember that round of severe thunderstorms?” His cheeks dimpled as he pictured Larkin frantically getting ready for work.
Lucky Thirteen (The Raiford Chronicles Book 1) Page 3
