by J. A. Kerley
Cruz frowned at me. Her eyes said she was starting to see things Harry’s way. She leaned toward the phone. “So you think the possibility of getting usable info from Boulder outweighs the potential of tipping off the killer?”
“Everyone pretends the system is anonymous, but people on the inside talk to one another, depend on each other. Someone has to goddamn know something.”
“What if they start talking about a plant in the system and it gets to the killer?” I said, replaying the reason we’d stayed quiet from day one.
“Two people have moved through Boulder, then come under the care of Mr Eye Pictures. We know them as Rhonda Doakes and Reinetta Early. One is dead.”
I looked at my watch. “Let’s figure Rein is watching her back. Give her another couple hours. Let’s make it four.”
“Four hours?” Harry said, tension rising in his voice.
“Outside of a thing about pictures, we have no solid reason to think Rick’s the killer. Plus the perp doesn’t kill immediately. I don’t know what he does, but he doesn’t kill them right away.”
“He tortures them, Carson,” Harry said. “That’s what he does. I don’t see what waiting a few more hours buys.”
I started my line of reasoning again, but the line was dead.
Chapter 41
“Good morning. The Women’s Crisis Center of Boulder, Liza Krupnik speaking.”
“I need to talk to the person in charge,” Harry Nautilus said, his eyes wandering the almost-deserted detectives’ room. “Is that you?”
“I’m just a staffer. You want Carol or Meelia. Carol’s the director and she’s here today. May I say who’s calling?”
“Tell Carol you’ve got Tee Bull on the line. That’s Tee with two Es.”
The phone system clicked as the call transferred. Nautilus heard a long pause, expected as the square-shaped woman with short red hair recalled her visitor.
The phone picked up, the voice making ice seem warm. “We don’t know anything about your … friend, Mr Bull. We wouldn’t tell you if we did.”
“May I have your email address, Carol?”
“Why would you –”
“You need to see something.”
“I doubt that. But send whatever you feel you need to show me.”
Nautilus created an email, attaching an archived photo from an award ceremony a few years back, Carson in it as well. Both men were in uniform, Nautilus stern as he held his certificate, Carson grinning like a freaking jack-o’-lantern.
“It’ll be there momentarily.” Nautilus hit Send.
A half-minute passed. “You’re not a pimp,” Carol finally said, confusion in her voice. “You’re a policeman.”
“A detective, ma’am. With the Mobile, Alabama, Police Department.”
“And this man beside you. He was …”
“That’s my partner, Carson Ryder.”
“I’m terribly confused. What is going on here?”
Nautilus laid it all out, taking under five minutes, using graphic detail when he felt necessary.
“I’m sorry, Detective,” Carol said. “But I have no idea where your undercover officer could be. We’re set up so that –”
“Do you personally know anyone in the system?” Nautilus said. “The folks who handle the transfers and safe houses?” He knew this was tightly protected information, necessarily so.
“Sometimes I enlist people at regional conferences,” Carol said, tentative. “Or people volunteer. What I don’t know – what I tell volunteers I don’t want to know – is their full name and exactly where they live.”
“But you sometimes still know, right?”
“Do this work for years and you learn things,” Carol said quietly.
“The person I’m looking for goes by Rick,” Nautilus said. “Real name or not, I don’t know. He’s handled two known transfers under that name. One of the women is dead.”
“Oh lord.”
“You know him?”
“He called a year ago, saying he’d done the same work in the northeast and was moving into our region. It’s a big region, Detective. I checked with the center in Seattle, or was it Spokane? They had nothing but praise.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Rick. I’m sorry, but it’s all I ever asked.”
“Can you call Spokane or Seattle for me and put me in touch with whoever recommended him?”
“It could be several hours because of the time change, Detective. But I’ll do my best.”
Carol took an hour and twenty minutes to get back. The director of the Spokane Center for Women’s Health was named Marjorie Kinter.
“Yes, Detective Nautilus,” Kinter said. “Carol in Boulder said you’d be calling. A nightmare. I don’t understand how it happened. Do you need the name of someone from our vicinity?”
“Someone who moved to Kansas, the Wichita area. Male, probably gay and –”
“Richard. You’re talking about Richard.”
Nautilus’s breath seized in his throat. Time stopped.
“Richard who?”
“Carol doesn’t trust anyone, but she seems to trust you. Normally I’d never tell anyone a name.”
“I know, ma’am.”
“You’re looking for Richard Salazano. We were so sorry to see him relocate. He lived by Eugene, Oregon, and if needed would come all the way up here. He’d drive all night to take a woman.”
Harry called and told me what he’d done. I held the phone a foot away and stared at it. “You what?” I finally said.
“I made the calls.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Jeez, and here I thought we were going to wait and see if Rein checked in. Because if she did we wouldn’t have to break cover.”
“You know that alarm in my head?”
I looked at Cruz. She shrugged. “It’s doesn’t matter, Ryder. It’s done.”
“The lady in Boulder put me on to Spokane,” Harry said. “This Rick guy did the same thing in the northwest region for a few years, moved to Oklahoma. You maybe want his full name?”
“Can I … ask you a question, Marla?” Rick asked Reinetta, the pair in his living room, spare furniture and framed black-and-white photos on the wall, the brown curtains pulled tight. “It’s important to me. A project I’m working on.”
On full alert behind her drowsy smile, Rein studied her supposed protector: mid-thirties, slender waist and wide shoulders, a bit taller than average, tousled black hair, brown eyes often called puppy eyes, soft. He wore khaki cargo pants, black T-shirt and an amethyst stud in his earlobe. It was obvious that he was in good physical condition, worked out hard. His voice and mannerisms were shaded toward an effeminate side, a contrast to the powerful body.
“Of course, Rick. Ask me anything.”
“May I take some photographs of you?”
Rein had been waiting and wondering if she’d hear the request Rick had asked of Gail – the late Rhonda Doakes – several months back.
“I don’t know, Rick,” Rein said. “I’m not sure if that’s what I’m supposed to –”
“Not your face, Marla. Oh my, never your face. Just your eyes. They’re for a special piece I’m putting together. A personal memento.”
From the moment Rein arrived at the isolated house in the dead of night – a half-mile from the nearest suburban-style community – she’d memorized everything she saw, planning for a getaway. She hadn’t made it upstairs, or seen behind a door on the hall leading to the guest bedroom. office? A second bedroom? Did it hold the standard accoutrements, or a chamber of horrors?
“I guess,” Rein said. “Sure.”
Rick pointed down the hall. “Let’s go to the studio down the hall. I have my gear in there and can set up a stand for an umbrella.”
“Umbrella?”
“A kind of reflector to make the light perfect. It’ll take ten minutes, about all we’ve got before you become a goner.”
Rein raised an eyebrow as if contemplating the re
quest, in actuality scoping out points of attack on Rick’s body: eyes, throat, solar plexus, groin, knees …
Get ready, girl.
“I guess it’s all right,” Rein said, internally replaying moves her uncle had made her perform for hours in the Police Academy gym. Grab his collar, drive your knee through his balls, get to the phone, call in the troops …
“I need to get something else.” Rick went to the closet behind the front door and retrieved a chrome bar, two feet long, a black knob on one end, a winding of duct tape on the other.
“What’s that for?” Rein asked.
“Just a little something to hold the umbrella.”
Rick held the pipe loosely to his side and nodded toward the room. Walking down the tight hallway Rein had to maintain an over-her-shoulder conversation with Rick because she had made a rookie mistake, and a very bad one.
Rick had gotten behind her.
Chapter 42
Richard Salazano’s home was on the rural side of the tower’s domain, a pink, sixties-style single-level set on a corner of farmland, a farmhouse barely visible in the mile-away distance. Crows pecked beside a fence line in the rear, beyond only fallow land stretching toward the horizon. It was the perfect place to do nasty things, any screams lost in the trees and hiss of summer insects. The Oklahoma sky was a bright blue bowl dappled with cirrus, a happy sky over what might be a very ugly situation.
“I’m going in hardcore,” I told Cruz on our second pass-by, the curtains tight, a bright compact import in the driveway. “Watch the back door. There’s a side door as well. He might pop out shooting.”
“Or he might be innocent. You sure don’t want to –”
I was looking at the situation, forming a plan. A cop might be scary, but the worst nightmare for the transfer and safe house people was an insane hubby or boyfriend who’d breached the system.
“Watch the rear. Give me three minutes. Then come in.”
“Three minutes?”
“Cruz …”
She cut the engine and we drifted across the dry grass of the front yard. I bailed ten steps from the house and ran to the front door. It was unlocked.
“EVERYONE GET DOWN,” I screamed, leaping inside, gun drawn.
Silence. I heard a clock ticking on the mantel. The décor was simple and straightforward and had an artsy inflection, black-and-white photos on the walls, bridges and landscapes and windmills as design elements. The furniture not country but urban: clean-lined chairs and a sofa, bookshelves, small tables, all seemingly from Ikea or a similar outlet. Crouching, I made my way through the dining room and into the kitchen. A teapot sat on the stove and I tapped it with a finger. Warm.
I froze to a murmur from a tight hall, sidled down the wall with the muzzle of my pistol at eye height, waiting. A sniffling sound was coming from a doorway and I entered low, gun first, double-handed. A bedroom, the same simple, direct furniture as the other pieces. A man in red silk boxers and a white tee was on the floor beside the unmade bed, curled into a fetal comma, snuffling, “Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me.”
“Get your hands out to your side. DO IT!”
Shaking hands moved outward, trembling fingers gripping the blue carpet. The man shot me a look, saw the gun. The snuffling turned to crying.
“What did you do with Marla?” I said, using the only name the guy would know Rein by. “Where is she?”
“M-M-Marla’s gone. I-I dropped her off over an hour ago.”
I pressed the gun against the guy’s head. “Bullshit! What did you do with her?”
“I passed her on. She didn’t s-stay here long … I d-don’t know where she is, I’m not s-supposed to.”
I cuffed the guy’s arms behind his back and ran room to room, yanking open closets. No Rein. Upstairs. No Rein. Basement. No Rein. I thundered back to the bedroom. The guy’s eyes were as wide as if he’d touched lightning.
“A-are you her husband?” he said, lower lip trembling. “Her b-boyfriend? I’m sorry you two had problems but I’m j-just a link in a chain. It has nothing to do with you.”
I stared at him. “You take pictures of them, don’t you, Richard? You need souvenirs.”
“How d-do you know about that?”
“I’LL ASK THE QUESTIONS! Tell me about the pictures.”
“I-I wanted a memory trail of the women in my care, that’s all. They’re so b-brave and scared at the same time, it sh-shows in their eyes.”
“BULLSHIT!”
“P-please … look on the table b-by the couch, the binder.”
I dragged a blubbery Richard with me and found the binder alongside books on antiques and birds. My fingers flipped pages of artful black-and-white photographs. Eyes. Eighteen pairs. Some looked sad, others hopeful. All looked alive.
I pushed Rick to the couch and stood absolutely still in the living room, trying to smell what was hanging between the molecules. I’d come to believe madness had its own odor, a pungent dankness. I’d never been able to understand what caused the smell – whether it emanated from psychopaths themselves or was something the universe put around them to make them visible to the senses of the unwary – but I knew that smell like I knew the stink of gas from a leaky stovetop.
I couldn’t smell madness, only chamomile tea. Richard was benign. I sighed and tossed the binder to the table, turning to see Cruz standing in the living room, her drawn weapon at her side.
“Your minutes are up,” she said.
Richard Salazano stared at Cruz, sensing he wasn’t going to die. Not today, anyway. “Who are you?” he asked.
I showed my ID. His head slumped forward in relief.
“Where did you take her?” I asked. “Marla.”
“A park just over the Missouri border. I-I usually keep them longer. But it worked out that another protector was in the area. I handed Marla to her.”
“There must have been communication with the person on the other side.”
“I used a pre-paid phone. The number’s on it.” Salazano looked between Cruz and me. “What’s wrong? Why are you here?”
Cruz stepped forward. “You helped a woman six months back, Richard. Her name was probably Gail. Dark hair, medium build, button nose?”
“I remember Gail.” Rick went pale as the worst possible reason for our visitation sunk in. His hands flew to his mouth. “Oh, no, please don’t tell me …”
“Gail’s dead,” I said. “And she’s not the only one. Someone’s using the system as a killing machine and we’re trying to find out who.”
“Dear Jesus. How can I help?”
“The phone number you used to make the connection …”
Rick Salazano ran to a dresser, pulling a cheapie phone from the top drawer. “I was going to clear everything today. But I was thinking about calling back, checking on Marla.”
“You usually do that?” Cruz asked.
“I planned on Marla being here a day at least. Probably two or three. It’s a sparse part of the country for links in the system. People need time to clear schedules, make long drives.”
I looked at Cruz, then back to Rick. “You’re saying something felt a little off, out of the ordinary?”
He frowned. “Everything seemed rushed. And two in almost as many days?”
“Two what?” Cruz said.
“Two runners, ma’am. Marla was the second woman in three days. Before her was Darleen.”
“Two so close together. Is that unusual?”
He nodded. “Normally I handle four or five a year.”
“These two women, Marla and Darleen. Did they go to the same link?”
“Both were headed southeast, but a link in the chain – Astra – called and said she was free immediately. We set it up, made the transfer.”
I dialed the number of Astra. No service, dead. Another drugstore cell phone, used for a few vital minutes, thrown into the weeds beside the road.
Chapter 43
Rein’s driver wore a formless tie-dye dress, cowboy boots a
nd beads, an unruly mass of curly brown hair jutting in every direction and falling over most of her face, round, red-lensed wireframe shades on a slender nose, her mouth wide enough to hold both a grin and a brown cigarette in a white holder. Rein had seen the woman on television shows about the history of rock’n’roll. She’d heard her sing on the radio and seen her photo in magazines.
Rein was being chauffeured by Janis Joplin.
“Hop in, girl,” Joplin had said at the transfer point, looking over the top of her small round sunglasses, her voice low and gravelly, a smoker’s voice. “Or we’re gonna be late for your revolution.”
It turned out the driver’s name wasn’t Janis – which would have been too weird for Rein to take – but Astra, which the now non-Janis was happy to explain as she slid from lane to lane down the highway.
“… birth name was Jane, which I never liked cuz the name was too, well, plain fuckin’ Jane. Then, when I was like sixteen, I decided to change it to the month I was born in, called myself January which was cool, but of course everyone shortened it to Jan which was no more than dropping the ‘e’ from Jane, so I felt I was going backwards. There was a Goth period when I called myself nada – with a lower-case ‘n’ of course – but dressing in black became so, so dark, you know? A few years back one of my boyfriends – just a casual friend, but an amazing fuck, tantric, went on forever – looked over to me after we’d finished about two hours of ride’n’glide and gasped, ‘Dana, you are a star.’ I had shifted around the letters in nada to get Dana – capital- D this time – but Dana was getting old and when my sweet fuck-ace called me a star, well …”
“‘A star’ anagrammed into Astra,” Rein completed.
“I’ve had it for six years now,” Astra grinned, large soft hands with outsized rings on every other finger spinning the wheel. Rein thought Astra’s penchant for make-up and jewlery made even the bangly, jangly Vicky Miles seem sedate. “I think it’s here to stay, unlike my ex tantric fuck-muffin, who actually turned out to be a total asshole – ain’t that how it goes.”
