by C. J. Box
“Here you can clearly see he’s turned his headlights out,” Tubman said, looking at the first two photographs. She’d used the night-vision setup on her digital Canon Rebel. Cody had taught her how to use it, she thought with a stab of guilt. The full moon had really helped as well.
Tubman said, “The only possible reason he’d do that would be so the citizens up on the bench wouldn’t notice a vehicle. That’s the only real explanation, since we all know the Tokely residence was empty.”
She nodded once but said nothing.
“What’s this in his hand and under his arm?” Tubman asked, looking at the next few photos. “It looks like a bag of something. A paper bag.
“And here he is standing on the front porch looking back. Trying to see if anyone is watching him. Is it possible he could see you?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s obvious,” Tubman said, practically rubbing his hands together with joy. “Because in the next shot he’s bending down picking the lock. That’s breaking and entering right there, as well as proof that he’s trying to do something worse. Because if he had a legitimate reason to go back into that house, all he had to do was file a request for the keys from the evidence room.”
She tried to swallow but her mouth was dry.
“So we jump ahead,” Tubman said. “The next few shots show nothing, just his vehicle and the dark house. But that tells us something right there, because he made a decision not to turn on any lights. Why would an investigator do such a thing? Why would a red-blooded, honest cop sneak into a crime scene and bump around in the dark? Gee, that’s a tough one,” Tubman said with heavy sarcasm.
“And here he comes out of the house. How long was he in there, Investigator Dewell?”
She cleared her throat but had trouble speaking.
“How long? I didn’t get that.”
“Seven minutes, sir.”
“Seven minutes. That’s a very short period of time to do a thorough investigation or follow up on a lead, don’t you think?”
“Please, sir,” she said.
“Okay, be that way,” he said dismissively. He turned his attention to the last few prints.
“He comes out after seven minutes and what do you know? He no longer has the paper bag! He must have thrown it away inside because he’s such a stickler for littering, don’t you think?”
She said nothing.
“And here he is looking around again. Trying to see if anyone saw him. Do you think at that point he was suspicious of you?”
“He might have heard my car, sir. I started it up because I was freezing and I wanted to turn the heater on.”
“But he didn’t see you.”
“No.”
“And he hasn’t asked you what you were doing last night?”
“No.”
Tubman sat back in his chair with a grin and looked at her. He said, “Good work, Investigator Dewell. Damned good work. I’ve finally gotten that son of a bitch, thanks to you.”
She looked away.
“I know you didn’t feel comfortable following him when I asked you,” Tubman said. “But you did your duty. You should be proud. No one wants a crooked cop in their department, much less a crooked partner. Why do you look like I shot your dog?”
“I just don’t feel good about this,” she said. “He’s such a great cop in so many ways.”
“Bullshit,” Tubman said sharply, sitting forward and glaring at her over the prints. “He’s been a pain in my ass since we hired him. There’s a good reason why he got kicked off the Denver Metro police force-because he’s a renegade. He might have solved some cases but who is to say he didn’t plant evidence then?”
She said, “He had the highest arrest rate in Denver. I looked it up. And he’s got the highest rate here. He’s your best cop when it comes to solving felonies. You know that.”
“What I know,” Tubman said, “is that the happiest day of my career is when I see his ass going out my door.”
Before she could respond, Tubman reached for his phone and punched the intercom button.
“Hoyt,” Tubman said, “I need to see you in my office.”
He grinned as he lowered the handset onto the cradle.
Cassie felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. She said, “You’re going to do this while I’m in the room? You’re actually going to do this now? So he knows who brought him down?”
Tubman waggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. He said, “I need a witness to the execution.”
“I’d rather it not be me, sir.”
“You’re looking at this all wrong, Dewell,” Tubman said. “You brought down a crooked cop. The Independent Record will love it. The Billings Gazette will love it. And the voters will love it.”
She took in a ragged breath of air and exhaled it through her nose. “I’m not running for anything,” she said.
“Keep up this good work,” he said, “and someday you might be. I mean, plenty of years from now.” He meant it as a good-natured joke but she didn’t smile.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in, Investigator Hoyt,” Tubman said.
Cody took in the scene quickly. She watched as he squinted at the prints, at Tubman’s triumphant grin, and turned to her without saying a word.
His face didn’t twitch but the light went out of his eyes as he looked at her. They were the eyes of a man who had lost it all.
4
5:49 P.M., Tuesday, November 20
The Lizard King watched as the lot lizard approached the Mack parked next to his. She tottered on her high heels and held her arms out for balance as if navigating a high wire. She’d be at his truck in five minutes, tops. Less if the driver refused. Because she was on the other side of the Mack at the driver’s door, he couldn’t see her.
He was barely breathing, and he felt himself becoming aroused. Not by her, but by what he was going to do to her.
The dome light went on in the cab of the Mack as the driver opened his door to answer the knock. The Lizard King could see the back of the Mack driver’s bald head and a dark crown of fuzz that wrapped from ear to ear in the back. The bald head nodded up and down. He was talking to her.
“Come on, buddy,” he whispered. “Do it or don’t. Quit fucking negotiating. Get out your forty bucks and stop trying to make a deal.”
The last three words came out in a shout.
The Mack cab light doused. He couldn’t see inside but he hadn’t seen her enter. The driver pulled the wrap-around cab curtain closed.
There were four kinds of sleeper cabs on the road, from the “coffin” type with a tiny twenty-four-inch bed accessible through a porthole-like hatch to the lavish studio sleepers that were practically camper trailers with wide beds, showers, sinks, and entertainment centers. Between the extremes were “condos” where the bed lifted to the ceiling to allow some headroom and “midroof” models where the bunk was on the bottom with storage compartments on top. The Lizard King preferred the midroof, but all of the designs were big enough to allow two people to cavort inside. Lot lizards didn’t need much space.
Then there she was, coming around the front of the Mack, her hand out on the grille of the truck for balance. The driver in the Mack had sent her away. She was shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe it. It was obviously a refusal from the driver. Maybe he’d said something, or gotten a quick free grope, he thought. She paused and quickly composed herself; smoothing her hair down on the sides and tugging at the hem of her skirt. Then she put on her game face and looked up and started toward his door as if nothing had happened.
The ten seconds it took for her to rap on his door seemed like an eternity. Then he heard it: three blows. These girls weren’t subtle, he thought.
He reached for the door handle with his left hand and cracked his door a few inches. With his right he reached down and touched the plastic grip on the stun gun with the tips of his fingers.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Are yo
u looking for a little company tonight?” she asked. He could see one eye through the crack. Too much dark eyeliner, as usual. The collar of her coat was faux fur and it sparkled with flakes of snow.
“I am,” he said.
“Are you alone or do you have a partner, too?”
“Just me.”
“Then,” she said, drawing out the word, “why don’t you open your door and let me inside so we can party?” She gestured toward the slightly open door: “I’m skinny but I ain’t this skinny, dude.” Her laugh was rough-a cackle.
He shot a quick look through the windshield. No one appeared to be watching, but with those Bible-thumpers one never knew. He looked across. The driver in the Mack had apparently settled into his sleeper for the night. The Lizard King could see bands of light blue from a television under drawn curtains.
He opened the door and could see her in full. She was older than he’d hoped. Her eyes peered from dark hollows, like a raccoon. Her face was angular, emaciated, with a gash of bright red lipstick. She didn’t part her lips when she smiled up at him. Probably ashamed of her teeth, he thought. As he reached down for her hand she hesitated for a moment, looking up at him. She seemed taken aback by the white Tyvek jumpsuit, and when she saw his face she recoiled.
“Are you coming in or not?” he asked, annoyed.
Although she seemed to be reconsidering, she extended her hand. He grasped it and pulled her up into the cab. As she wriggled over and sat on his lap he shut the door and the dome light went out. He could feel her bony hips through his suit. There wasn’t much meat on her. And she could no doubt feel how hard he was beneath her.
“You’re ready for me, ain’t you, cowboy?” she said.
He grunted. Her coat and hair smelled of damp and stale cigarette smoke.
“So how do you like it, sugar?”
He said, “Rough.”
She froze, but before she could reply he reached up and plunged the twin prods of the stun gun into her bare neck beneath her jawbone. There was the angry snapping sound of electricity and she arched her back with more strength than he thought possible for a meth head.
He took the stun gun away and could smell burned flesh and hair in the cab as her body went limp. He roughly pushed her off him and she fell away and thumped on the bare metal floor at his feet.
Then, as he reached down to pull her back into the sleeper cab, she started to convulse. Her arms and legs jerked spasmodically and her head turned to show a gaping mouth. Teeth missing, he thought. He was right about her. He shrunk back, alarmed and angry. What was happening? One of her feet twitched so rapidly her shoe came off and bounced off the door. She’d struck back wildly with her fist and hit his ankle.
She made an “uunnh” sound and stopped moving. Her head was still twisted to the side and a long thin breath clattered out of her. He knew she was dead.
He cursed aloud and kicked the body hard. Nothing. This had never happened before. Was she so strung out the voltage triggered cardiac arrest? He didn’t know and didn’t care.
He just knew he was angry and not at all satisfied. He hated that bitch for dying on him so soon.
He bellowed, “Goddamn it!” and thumped the steering wheel hard with the heel of his hand.
And he heard the laughter and looked up. Chamois, Muttonchops, and the other Bible-thumpers had once again assembled between two trucks in the front row. They weren’t looking at him, but they were laughing and gesticulating over some private joke. It was like they were mocking him.
The Lizard King rolled her body over. There was blood everywhere, rivulets coursing through steel channels on the floorboard and pooling in dents where the metal was screwed to the frame. Then he saw the curved bone handle of the knife sticking out from her breast. Right into her heart. Her ratty purse fell away as he rolled her to her back.
So she’d packed a knife of her own, he thought. A cheap hunting knife hidden in her soft cloth purse. Without a sheath. And when she fell to the floor the blade pierced through the purse and her own weight sunk the blade into her chest.
Stupid, stupid bitch, he thought.
5
5:55 P.M., Tuesday, November 20
In Helena, Montana, eighteen-year-old Justin Hoyt scooted his chair back from the table and the laptop and listened again to the voice mail. He held up his hand to his friend Christian to shush him while he called. Christian hovered behind the sofa in the family room off the kitchen, watching ESPN Sportscenter with the sound off and making comments along with the two other guys and two girls crammed onto the couch. The coffee table in front of them was littered with empty beer bottles, an open laptop showing YouTube videos, and an iPad.
Christian, who was a tall and wide-shouldered linebacker for the Helena high school football team and who’d volunteered his home for the party because his parents were in Great Falls, rolled his eyes and lowered the volume on his iHome with a remote. He was pale-featured and wore his hair in a semi-buzz cut that looked like a beige carpet sample. A couple of other boys, who were pounding beer after beer in the kitchen and were also on the football team, howled in protest that they liked that song.
“Just a minute,” Christian said to them with mock seriousness, “Justin is listening to something really important.”
“I hope it’s not his dad coming over,” one of the girls said. “That dude scares me.”
“Thanks,” Justin said. Like his friends, he wore a gray BENGALS FOOTBALL hoodie, jeans, and a baseball cap. He had borrowed Christian’s laptop to try and track Danielle and Gracie and it sat open in front of him. Justin hadn’t drunk any beer and had made a promise to himself to hold off until his guests arrived. And then maybe just one. He had no natural attraction to alcohol, maybe because his life had been shaped by it-courtesy of his father.
“Guess who is driving right now to Helena to spend Thanksgiving with her boyfriend? Call me.”
He felt his insides contract and he looked up.
“What is it, man?” Christian asked.
“Remember Danielle?”
Christian rolled his eyes. “The crazy bitch?”
“I never said that,” Justin said quickly.
“But you thought it, man. What about her?”
Justin gestured toward his phone. “She left me a message saying she’s coming to see me. Tonight.”
Christian’s eyes got big and he looked around before he burst out laughing.
“For Thanksgiving,” Justin said. “She’s coming here.”
Christian leaned in close to Justin. “Didn’t you say you dumped her finally?”
Justin felt his face blanch.
Christian leaned back and grinned. “You didn’t pull the trigger on it, did you? You wussed out.”
How could he explain? Justin thought. Danielle was relentless. She didn’t take hints. And she blew right past any mention he made about his new life in Montana, the new friends he’d met, the football team, the new friends he’d met …
He didn’t hate her, he thought. He just didn’t like her anymore. She was too much-dominating every conversation, telling him what he should think, what bands he should like, how he should apply to Colorado State University because that’s where she would likely go.
They’d been through such a trauma together two years ago in Yellowstone they’d emerged extremely close. They’d been through a trauma that would have ended badly if Justin’s dad Cody hadn’t intervened and saved them. But afterward, after Justin moved to Montana with his mom and Danielle returned to Colorado, the separation made him realize she drove him crazy. He’d asked himself if he would even want to be around her at all if she didn’t look like that. And his answer was no.
Christian said, “Didn’t you say that if you could take her sister’s personality and put it into Danielle’s body, that-”
“Shut up,” Justin said, giving Christian the evil eye and checking around to see if anybody had overheard. “I was goofing around. And that was just between us, dude.”
&nbs
p; Christian replied with a broad conspiratorial wink and drained the last of the beer bottle he held in a meaty hand. “Hey, I get it,” Christian said. “I’ve seen her profile on Facebook. She’s smoking hot, man.”
“What are you guys talking about over there?” one of the girls from the family room called out, “Christian, you went to get me a beer, remember?”
“Coming up!” Christian called back, walking into the kitchen to pull another beer bottle from the cooler of ice.
The girl, named Kelsie, got up from the sofa and smiled at Justin and shook her head to indicate Christian was an idiot. Kelsie had short red hair, sparkling green eyes, a little too much makeup, and breasts that strained at the buttons of her blouse.
She said, “I heard. So is this the girl that kept you unavailable to the fine girls of Montana?”
He didn’t respond.
“Justin, are you there?” she asked, annoyed. Justin heard Christian curse in the other room and looked up.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m not sure what I should do.”
“Tell her to turn around,” Kelsie said. “Yes!” Christian agreed as he walked back. “But tell her to sext you some photos first.”
“Shut up, Christian,” Kelsie said coldly. Christian shut up.
Then to Justin: “Tell her to go home.”
“You don’t know her,” Justin said, sighing. “Plus, she has her sister with her. They’re on the highway hours from Denver.”
“She’s manipulating you,” Kelsie said. “Can’t you see that?”
He slumped back and looked at the ceiling for any answer other than yes.
6
5:57 P.M., Tuesday, November 20
In the shadows of the rear row at the truck stop, The Lizard King dragged the body into his sleeper cab and wrapped it in plastic sheeting and secured the bundle with hundred-mile tape before sopping the floor clean of her blood so his boot soles wouldn’t stick to it. Then he stripped off his bloody one-piece, tossed it into the corner of the sleeper, and pulled on another. The inside of the truck would have to be thoroughly washed out and disinfected as soon as he could do it. But not here. Not with a body in the sleeper. He couldn’t risk the chance of letting anyone look inside until he figured out how to dispose of the body and the bloody rags. Luckily, there were plenty of empty miles between the truck stop and home.
