by Lee Goldberg, Scott Nicholson, J A Konrath, J Carson Black,
“Nope. I should have been born in a different era. When women didn’t show everything they had.”
As Laura headed back to Tucson later in the day, she replayed her interview with Ted Olsen. After agreeing with him on the sad state of teenagers today and their lack of modesty, she’d eased into specific questions about his actions on the evening Jessica Parris disappeared. If he recognized that the thrust of the interview had changed, Laura didn’t see any evidence of it. He answered her questions innocently and with painstaking thoroughness, supplying the name of at least one person, a local woman, who had been to his shop that night. Her followup call to the customer corroborated his story.
Even though he made dresses and his shop was close to City Park, Laura found it hard to imagine this man killing Cary Statler and overpowering Jessica Parris. His shop was cluttered and dusty; his personal hygiene abominable. She couldn’t picture him scrupulously cleaning up Jessica with an almost scary attention to detail.
This driving back and forth between Bisbee and Tucson was getting old. Laura got some cheese crackers from the vending machine and headed to the squad bay. On the way, she ducked into the bathroom and gave herself a strip wash, using liquid soap from the dispenser and a half dozen small sheets of brown paper towels. It didn’t do much good. Her blouse was wrinkled and she still felt stale. She salved her lips, combed the sweat more evenly through her hair, and decided that was as good as it would get today.
Victor wasn’t at his desk, but he’d left her a copy of his autopsy notes.
It occurred to her that Victor wasn’t around much at all these days.
He seemed to be disconnecting from the case. She knew he was preoccupied with his wife and new daughter, not to mention his four other kids and the mistress everyone knew about but didn’t acknowledge. But it was more than that. He was acting as if the case were already solved and he had moved on.
Victor had always been a lazy investigator, but his charm made up for it. He was a brilliant interviewer and interrogator—had gotten some astounding confessions over the years. On the cases they’d worked together, his laxness in certain aspects of an investigation had never bothered her. She’d picked up the slack without complaint, not because she was a saint—she sure as hell wasn’t—but because she liked to keep her finger on the pulse of every case. She wanted to possess a case, know it up and down and inside out, the car parts on the tarp, so she could pounce down on any piece at any time. For this reason, she liked being teamed with Victor. He never got in her way.
But that had all changed when he went behind her back and set up the search with Sylvia Clegg.
She’d just started reading Victor’s autopsy notes when the phone rang—Doris Bonney returning her call. It took a moment for Laura to place her, the “girl” who worked for the old man on West Boulevard. Doris Bonney sounded much older, sixty at least.
Accustomed to doing two things at once, Laura skimmed the report as she asked Doris Bonney about the previous Friday. “Do you remember what time you left there?”
“Had to be six fifteen, six twenty at the latest.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mr. Toomey eats at five thirty every evening. I have to be across town for a class I’m taking by six thirty.”
“Did you notice anything unusual when you left?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
Laura’s eyes ran down the report. Cause of death: A blow to the head. Well duh.
“Think hard,” she said to Mrs. Bonney. “People walking their dogs, kids, someone driving by?”
Silence. Laura pictured her thinking. Most good citizens tried hard to please. Talking to cops brought out the bright student in them.
“Sorry." Bonney sounded sincerely disappointed. “It was just like any other night.”
Once more with feeling. “You’re sure? It could be anything out of the ordinary, no matter how insignificant it seems to you.”
Laura said this as she turned to the next page of the report, noting that the object used to kill Cary Statler was described as heavy and flat. There was a portion of Cary’s scalp where the edge of the weapon had made its mark—a curved indentation. In addition, there was trace evidence of fish, oil, salt, and flakes of metal in Cary’s wound. The report concluded that the weapon could have been a frying pan or skillet.
“Well, there was a motor home.”
Laura straightened in her chair, all her attention now on Bonney. “Motor home?”
“I thought I was going to be late for class. This big motor home was taking its time trying to turn around. I’m sure it isn’t important, but honestly, that’s the only thing …”
“Are you sure it was that Friday?”
“That’s the night of my pottery class.”
“Can you remember what it looked like?”
“Big. Had to be a mile long. It took him some maneuvering to turn that thing around, let me tell you. There were three other cars waiting. You’d think he’d be more considerate.”
“Do you remember which way he was going?”
“When he finally got turned around? Up to the pass.”
“Out of town?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you remember the color?”
“It was light brown—tan, I’d guess is the better word. I had to sit there staring at it for the longest time. Definitely tan.”
“Did you get a look at the driver?”
“Nope. It was hard to see in—it’s dark up there by six thirty.”
After she hung up, Laura pulled out a pad and wrote.
Motor home sightings:
West Boulevard, approx. 6:15 p.m. July 8
Brewery Gulch, approx. 2 a.m. July 8
After this, she wrote:
Frying pan?
She tried to picture Chuck Lehman walking up the road looking for Jessica and Cary, holding a frying pan.
The phone interrupted her thoughts.
“Laura, could you come by my office for a minute?" Lieutenant Galaz asked when she answered. “Any time in the next ten minutes.”
Laura realized this was the first time she’d seen the inside of Lieutenant Galaz’s office since he’d been here.
A big man sat in the leather chair closest to Galaz’s desk. He gave the impression of toughness; blond butch cut, muscles encased in fat under a Big and Tall navy sports coat. The ubiquitous cop mustache, ginger-gray. Square, gold-rimmed glasses tinted rose that went with his square face. One black-loafered ankle rested on his knee. He did not get up when she entered the room.
Galaz, seated at his massive cherrywood desk, did rise. His smile inclusive, as if he shared a joke with her.
“Laura, glad you could make it. This is Mickey Harmon, with Dynever Security. He’s a twenty-year veteran with TPD. We go way back—grew up together.”
Laura nodded to Harmon.
“Sit down, sit down." Galaz motioned Laura to the other burgundy leather chair. Watching her with interest. As she did so, she thought how different this office looked from that of the previous owner, Larry Tuttle, who had occupied this office for eleven years. The bank of fluorescent lights had morphed into softer, more flattering light. The second-hand furniture, a lot of it cheap office stuff, had been replaced by a thick oriental carpet, cherrywood, and leather. A bookshelf full of books on DPS rules and procedures, one whole shelf devoted to criminal profiling and forensic procedures—not so different from her own library. But the biggest change was on the walls—three nature photos, blown-up big. One of them was a close-up of a hummingbird in mid-flight. The other two were spiders blown up into monsters: A black widow in a glistening web, its eyes magnified to the size of peas; a giant, hairy wolf spider against a shimmering backdrop of green.
Galaz followed her gaze. “Ah, you noticed my photos. It’s a hobby of mine. Well, more of a passion.” He pushed an Arizona Highways magazine across his desk. “Finally made the big time. Page fifteen.”
Laura dutifully turned to the photo spread: More spide
rs and a scorpion or two.
“Very impressive, sir.”
His smile was quick, as if he were expecting the compliment.
“I called you in here to see how the case was going. Is it true we’re close to an arrest?”
“We’re in the process of collecting evidence now. We’re hoping the forensics on the computer will pan out.”
“But the lipstick with the prints on it? That’s pretty solid?”
“The lipstick had her prints on it. It was found in his bedroom.”
Galaz frowned. “I’m glad you’re taking your time and not rushing to judgment. You remember Walter Bush.”
Walter Bush was a local businessman who had been arrested for a series of burglaries based on one witness’s identification. He was eventually cleared, but not before he attempted suicide in his jail cell. A lawsuit was pending.
Galaz leaned back, hands clasped behind his head. “Laura here is one of the best investigators we’ve got. You remember the Judd murders—guy murdered his whole family? Laura was the one who cracked it. She’s like a pit bull. Grabs on and won’t let go.”
Laura mentally squirmed.
“We’ve been having a little disagreement on what kind of killer this is,” Galaz said. “Mickey’s convinced he’s white, but I’d like him to think outside the box a little bit." He smiled and spread his hands. “You know—embrace diversity.”
Laura said, “The majority of these offenders are white—“
“What did I tell you?" Mickey said, winking at her.
Laura added, “But it’s a mistake to rule out any one race. Even though there are very few black or Hispanic offenders, I think there will be more as—“
Galaz turned to Mickey, his grin triumphant. “You see, Mickey? She agrees with me. Even though minorities are under-represented, culturally we’re catching up. More of us are joining the ranks of the middle class, are better-educated, we’re succumbing to the same pressures that the average white guy has. We’re developing a taste for it.”
Laura said nothing. It was tantamount to saying how great it was that women were catching up and passing men in lung cancer statistics.
“All I’m saying, Mickey, is it could be anybody,” Galaz said. “We don’t want to limit our options."
“I agree,” Laura said. “But likely he is Caucasian." Hoping the lieutenant wouldn’t be insulted in some weird way.
“Oh, I’m sure he is. We were talking theoretically." Galaz rolled a Mont Blanc pen in his long, tapered fingers. “I understand there’s an Internet connection to this? You think the perp got to this girl on the Internet?”
She wondered if he got the term “perp” from television. Nobody in her squad or any squad she knew had ever used the word. “We think there could be an Internet connection, but so far we haven’t been able to find it.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. I’ve got someone on it, but with the Cary Statler homicide—we don’t have the resources.”
His eyes were sympathetic. “I was talking about this with Mickey. This CRZYGRL thing. You really think that’s important to the case?”
“It could be.”
“I told you that Mickey here works for Dynever Security. It’s one of the top Internet security companies in the United States. Heck, probably the world.” He glanced at Harmon. “You work with the government on all levels, don’t you, Mickey? State, federal, you name it. Really impressive.”
“We’ve consulted on a number of high-profile cases for them,” Harmon said.
“I forget what all you do,” Galaz said, fiddling with his pen.
“Mostly we’re Internet security. Countersurveillance. One division creates websites and develops networks, another is strictly data management. We also offer Internet security services to small businesses.”
It sounded like a sales pitch.
“The point is,” said Galaz, “You know as well as I do we’re not equipped to handle something like this. If this guy really did lure her on the Internet. You know what our budget’s like.” He turned to Harmon. “Desert Lakes, this little podunk town in the middle of the state? They have three times the budget per capita we do. They get the shiny new cars, the cyber-cops, all the perks. Here we are, the state agency, we’re supposed to be elite, and we’re lagging behind everybody else.”
Laura smiled. There was a joke around the investigative division that “DPS” stood for “Don’t Pay Shit”.
“So we have to improvise." Galaz leveled his gaze on her. “How sure are you that this is the guy?”
“Lehman?" She paused. Not knowing what to say.
“Go on. We’re nonjudgmental here.”
Laura didn’t like the way this was going. She didn’t like the “we”—this friend of Galaz’s sitting there as if he were DPS. But she had to be honest. “Even though we’re moving ahead with Lehman, we’re looking at other leads.”
“Would it help if we could find this CRZYGRL connection?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“What if we outsourced this job to Dynever Security?”
So that was what this was about. She opened her mouth to reply, then stopped. Harmon was sitting right here. She realized belatedly she’d walked into an ambush. She couldn’t tell him her real thoughts with Harmon here.
“My guess is, this is going to take some getting used to.” Galaz swiveled in his chair, back and forth, smiling at her. “Tell you what. I’m having a little get-together tonight, just a few people. I’d like you to come by, meet the folks you didn’t get a chance to last time.”
“That would be great, sir.”
“So I can count on you?”
“Yes sir.”
“I particularly want you to meet the head of Dynever Security. Great guy. He’s like a brother to me.”
She nodded, not knowing what else to say.
He glanced at his watch. “I can tell we’re going to get out of here late. Nine o’clock for drinks? You can find my house okay, can’t you? I don’t think you’ve ever been there.”
Laying it on a little thick. Victor was right; she should have gone to the barbecue. She nodded. “I’ll be there.”
“See you then.”
Something in his smile told her that the audience was over.
When the door shut behind her, she felt as if she had been processed through the county jail—her wallet, shoelaces, and belt gone. Folded, stapled, and mutilated.
She found herself staring at the wall of photos again. Noticed that most of them included Nick Fialla, the University of Arizona football coach who had led the Wildcats to a Rose Bowl win two years ago. It amazed her how the prominent people of Tucson, the movers and shakers, flocked to get their picture taken with Nick Fialla.
He should rent himself out, she thought sourly. Like the burros in Nogales that the tourists pose with to prove they’d been to Mexico.
21
The sun had just gone down behind the Tucson Mountains when Laura reached the Vail exit. The lights of oncoming cars were already snapping on, strung out across the pink-purple hills east of Tucson like a necklace of diamonds.
As she drove across the overpass, she spotted a scrawny woman sitting in the open hatchback of a Chevy Vega parked near the off ramp, holding up a cardboard sign that said BLOWJOBS $2.00.
Everyone had their price.
Laura’s price was giving in to Let’s Go People! Galaz. No way she could get out of going to this party; she’d already missed the barbecue—apparently the only person in the whole department who did.
As she pulled up in front of her house, she spotted something pale in the darkness of her porch. It materialized into a white long-sleeved shirt as she approached.
“Tom?" Her heart quickening.
“Hi, Bird.”
“When did you get back?”
“This morning.” He stood up from the steel glider near the door. It creaked loudly—sixty-year-old springs.
He was
close enough that she caught the scent of his shirt, a combination of starch and the fresh smell of line-drying. Tom didn’t own a dryer. He didn’t own much of anything.
“I heard about the girl who got killed—thought you might need me.”
“Who’d you hear that from?”
“Mina.”
“Mina called you?”
“I called her. I was checking on Ali.”
Referring to a famous bareback bronc named Old Yeller. Ten years ago, before Old Yeller took the inevitable downward spiral to the dog food factory, Tom bought him, changed his name to Ali (“because he was The Greatest”) and towed him around from job to job. Ali was twenty-three years old, sway-backed, and deeply suspicious of Laura.
She inhaled the night air, soggy and laden with the odors of creosote and manure. She was glad Tom was here—really glad. “How long have you been waiting?”
“I wasn’t waiting. I was sitting.”
Zen and the Mystic Itinerant Wrangler. He reached out and touched her lightly on her cheek, which sent her thoughts whirling like sparks from a kicked-up fire, her mind buzzing on and off like an old neon sign. He was aware of his effect on her, but had the good sense not to say anything. “I thought we could go by the cantina and get a drink. Mina’s beginning to wonder if you’re avoiding her.”
Mina, the proprietor of the Spanish Moon Cantina on the Bosque Escondido, liked to micromanage the lives of the people who lived and worked here. Laura wondered if she’d weighed in on the living-together issue yet.
“I’d better not drink anything. I have to be somewhere later.”
“Oh?”
“A party at my lieutenant’s house—it’s mandatory.”
“Mandatory?”
“For me anyway. I didn’t go to the last one, so I’ve got to go this time.”
“What’ll he do if you don’t?”
She shrugged. “Probably nothing. It’s politics.”
“Sounds to me like he set you up.”
Great insight from a man whose only possessions were a truck, a saddle, a horse trailer, and one decrepit horse.
Here she’d found a man who was perfect for her in every way except one. In the currency she valued most, the currency that defined her life—career—he didn’t even have pocket change. He had no ambition. Thirty-five years old and he wrangled horses on a guest ranch.
