by Lee Goldberg, Scott Nicholson, J A Konrath, J Carson Black,
“That’s okay, we ran him at the PD here. He doesn’t have a criminal record.”
“Well, I guess that’s it.”
“Maybe not.”
He ignored that. “I have some news you might be interested in. Timmy Judd’s in intensive care. He tried to kill himself today. Drank some drain cleaner. They don’t know how he got it. But you know he’s gotta be suffering.”
Laura thought about Shannon Judd, only seven years old, having the presence of mind to make her way into the crawl space underneath her house—the house she had lived in all her short life—to hide from her own father. The pain and fear she must have experienced as her life drained away along with the blood from two gunshot wounds.
“Hope it destroys his throat, his esophagus, his digestive tract—I hope he gets cancer.”
“He’s feeling it, that’s for sure.”
They were both silent for a moment.
Laura sensed that whatever rift had been between them was healing. She might as well make him even happier. “I’m thinking about coming back soon.”
“Oh?”
“I want to get into his house, but I don’t have enough to get a warrant.”
“Come on, do you really think he’s the one? I’m telling you, Lehman was this close to telling it all.”
Laura mentally shrugged. “I would like you to do one thing for me. The photographs I took at the crime scene that first morning—of all the people hanging out there? Could you FedEX them to me?”
“I came straight home from Bisbee. I’d have to go back to the squad bay to pick them up, then Fed Ex—“
“I know he was there, in Bisbee. I saw him. You did, too.”
“Where?”
“He was the pianist at the Copper Queen Hotel.”
33
MUSICMAN. HOT WHEELS. WARLOCK. SMOOTH TALK. TRAVELER.
It was like having a wardrobe full of costumes. You could change your clothes whenever you felt like it. You just decided what person you wanted to be that day—whatever fit your mood—and donned the name like a favorite shirt or jacket.
His favorite right now was “Traveler,” for a couple of reasons. One, he had always loved the open road, loved to drive. Just pick a route—back road or freeway, it didn’t matter—and follow it. Go where he pleased, always looking for what was beyond the next bend in the road. But the most pertinent connotation of the word “traveler” came from the books the profilers used, those books about people like him. Men who killed—serial killers—had a tendency to go from place to place so they wouldn’t get caught. They were called “travelers,” and he thought this the height of irony to use that for one of his e-mail names. It was a hint, even though no one had ever picked up on it. A clever nod to fair play.
He had not done much traveling lately, although he had moved ninety miles to the north. Tucson was an easy town to disappear in. He had melted right into the Tucson melting pot. He was careful, though, staying close to the freeway in a Motel 6, only venturing out of the neighborhood to a UPS Store to pick up the money Dark Moondancer had sent him.
He was in the Motel 6 now, doing what he loved best—trolling the net. But even that paled in comparison to what was on his mind: the e-mail from [email protected].
Intrigued, he’d opened it—and knew right away it was her.
She told him what happened—how her parents had discovered the camera and jewelry he’d sent her and demanded to know where she got them. She’d refused to tell, and her father, the son-of-a-bitch, took away her computer privileges.
But his girl had spunk. It took her awhile, but she managed to talk her mother into letting her use her computer for school, and immediately she set up a new e-mail account.
Kids these days.
I was scared but now I know how much I really luv U and I know its right. They cant keep us apart
Reading that, Musicman couldn’t help experiencing a tiny kernel of hope.
He had to be sure, though.
He went through all his CRZYGRL12 messages, starting with the most recent and going backward. He read the messages which had lured him to Bisbee, messages he now knew were false:
I have to go visit my dad in the poduk town. Boriiiing. Theirs nothig to do there.
A lie.
I’ve been thinking. Your right. Its time we got together.
Lie, lie, lie.
I know a park were we coud meet
I want to do it now
I luv U
Musicman went back through each e-mail, scrupulously, trying to figure out when the imposter had taken over. Looking for changes in syntax and content. He couldn’t see anything different. She used “lay” instead of “lie”, a common grammatical mistake. Lots of smiley faces and sad faces, depending on her mood. The same misspellings: “their” for “there”; “coud” for “could”.
He printed everything up; sometimes you could spot stuff on hard copy that you missed on the screen. Went through the e-mails again, starting with the most recent, going backward in time.
And then he saw it.
Theirs nothig to do there.
He rummaged through the twenty-seven pages of correspondence he had saved to disk, scanning rapidly, pulse thumping in his ears. Did she use “their” and “there” indiscriminately?
No. Thirteen times she’d written “their”. Never “there”.
Whoever intercepted their e-mails—and pretended to be CRZYGRL12—had slipped up. A common mistake; it’s hard to misspell on purpose. Spelling was a habit like anything else. Like if you tried to change your handwriting. As careful as you were, you had a tendency to revert to what you were.
How had he missed it?
Now he had to figure out if this latest e-mail came from the girl or the imposter.
34
Back in Chief Redbone’s mildew-smelling office, Laura removed the top two photographs from the envelope Victor had FedExed her and spread them out on his desk beside the photograph of Jimmy de Seroux.
“Kind of looks like him,” Redbone said. “If you take away the mustache.” He was in the process of eating a slice of apple pie from a styrofoam box.
“I saw him myself. Playing piano at a bar in Bisbee.”
He sat back and folded his hands over his stomach. “That may be, but you’re not what Judge Lanier would call an impartial witness, and he’s who we gotta get around if we want a warrant.” He sighed and pushed the photo back across the table. “Sounds pretty circumstantial to me. Judge Lanier doesn’t like circumstantial evidence. Honestly, I don’t think he’s gonna bite.”
“The tire tracks outside his house are the same make and type as the ones found near the primary crime scene—Michelin XRVs.” She pushed the lab report that Victor had faxed along with the photos across the desk.
Redbone picked it up, holding it out in order to read it. “Says here it’s the same kind, but there must be millions of these things all over the country. There’s no anomaly to show these are the exact same tires.” He put his hands behind his head. “Lanier’s not going to like that.”
Laura had experience with recalcitrant judges. She always sought out the toughest judges because if they okayed a search warrant, the defense attorney would be left with one less piece of ammunition. “I’ll take my chances.”
The chief shook his head. “I can tell you right now he’ll dearly love tearing this apart. Lookie here, the dress—the link to that Alison Burns killing. How many people use those patterns? They’re on the Internet. And how many people could’ve downloaded this boy’s picture? He’s got it out there for everybody to see.”
He scooped up some melted ice cream, licked the plastic spoon.
“Nope,” he added morosely, “I don’t see Judge Lanier liking this at all.”
Judge Lanier had them in and out in ten minutes.
“He’s got a golf game at ten,” Chief Redbone explained as they were ushered out by the judge’s white-haired bailiff. “He sure as heck shot us down. I’m sorry about that.”
> “Whatever happened to Southern hospitality?”
Redbone held the door open for her. “He’s a transplant from Rhode Island.”
Laura tried to think if she could have done anything different, but it had all happened so fast. Judge Lanier had said few words to them inside his stuffy, smoke-filled chamber, but the ones he did use were scathing. “A waste of the court’s time.” “A snipe hunt." And: “I don’t know how you do it out in the southwest, Miss Criminal Investigator of the DP of S, but here we have laws and we have precedence. You will not turn this court into a Star Chamber. The de Serouxs have been through enough, and I will not permit this witch hunt.”
“What was that about the de Serouxs?” Laura asked Redbone as they walked down the steps of the courthouse.
Redbone said, “The Judge doesn’t like extra work, and this qualifies. He doesn’t want to come under any scrutiny. He just keeps a low profile so he’s retained every few years. Well,” he patted her arm, “I’ve got to be going. Gotta keep the streets safe for posterity.”
He got into his unit and drove sedately down Market Street. She saw him turn in the direction of the police department.
Laura realized he never answered her question.
Hungry, she walked up Market to the Cloud Nine Coffee Shop. Taking a red vinyl booth by the window, she pulled the photos of Jessica Parris, Alison Burns, and Linnet Sobek out of her briefcase and spread them out on the formica surface.
There had to be a way to get into that house. Her conviction was growing—this was the guy. She just had to look harder, find something she’d missed.
She stared at the photographs. All three girls looked alike. The same type. Similar hair length, if not style, same pert nose. A dusting of freckles. Innocent, wide blue eyes.
Jessica was the anomaly. Brown eyes. Light-boned, small for her age. Jessica was the mistake. The abduction of Jessica Parris was an act of impulse after de Seroux failed to get the girl he wanted.
The waitress appeared and upended a brown ceramic mug. “Coffee?” she asked.
Laura nodded. The blond waitress looked to be in her sixties. Laura was mesmerized by the woman’s upper eyelids, the color of purple grapes and almost as puffy, ending in eyelashes heavily lined in black. Her nameplate said “Marlee”.
She glanced at the photograph of Linnet Sobek. “I sure hope she landed someplace good.” She gave Laura a searching look. “You a reporter?”
“No.”
Laura just wanted to be left alone, but the waitress was friendly. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” the waitress added.
“I’m from Arizona.”
“Well, isn’t that a small world? I lived with my daughter and her husband in Phoenix up until a year or two ago. Where you say you were from?”
“Tucson.” She wished the woman would leave her alone to think.
“I grew up here, never wanted to leave, but my daughter wanted me to come live with her and I wanted to be near my grandchildren … now the kids are grown, and I just couldn’t stop being homesick for this little town. So I finally made a break and came on back. One thing I’ve got is really good feet, that plus stamina, so I figure I can work until I’m seventy at least. Plus, I like the work, being around people.”
Laura could appreciate that, but she just wanted to be left alone with her blue funk.
“What’ll it be? The biscuits and gravy are good.”
She remembered how when she was a kid she always ordered a BLT on white toast with a side of pickles. She hadn’t eaten white bread for years, but suddenly craved it. Must be the influence of the south.
The waitress pushed back a strand of brittle hair and said, “Sure thing, honey.” She whisked away with the menu and headed for the kitchen.
There was some kind of heating vent near the back wall and Laura could feel it on the back of her neck, steaming her clothes. The place looked none too clean either—a greasy spoon. Her dad loved greasy spoons. She’d forgotten about that.
Laura replaced the photographs of the girls with the picture of Jimmy de Seroux. Maybe she was wrong—what if it was Lehman?
She reached into the wooden bowl of dried olives in front of the table jukebox, suddenly starving, took one and bit. It wasn’t an olive—the thing was salty and kind of mushy. She had no idea what it was.
“Never had a boiled peanut before?” asked Marlee coming by with a fresh pot.
“Who’d want to boil peanuts?”
“You just keep on eating them, and sooner or later you’re gonna be addicted." She set the plate with the BLT down on the table with a plastic click and glanced at the photograph of de Seroux. “You know Dale?”
“Dale?” Laura was confused.
“Dale Lundy. That’s got to be Bill Lundy’s son. What’s that say?” she added, craning her neck to see the writing on the bottom. “Best Wishes … Jimmy.”
Laura said, “Jimmy de Seroux.”
She frowned, as if she were trying to access something on her hard drive. “No. That just can’t be.”
“This is Jimmy de Seroux. He plays piano at the Gibson Inn.”
“No, that’s got to be Dale Lundy. He looks just like his daddy.”
Laura felt as if she’d just slipped down the rabbit hole. This woman obviously didn’t know what she was talking about. Everyone she’d talked to had assured her that this guy was Jimmy de Seroux. He’d signed his name Jimmy. It was Jimmy de Seroux. Laura reiterated that.
“Nope, that’s Dale Lundy. He looks so much like his daddy." The woman’s conviction was unshakable. “Maybe you’re getting them confused because they were neighbors.”
There was something about the way she said it. As if she were holding back an unsavory detail. Laura remembered something Judge Lanier had said: The de Serouxs have been through enough.
“The de Serouxs and the Lundys were neighbors?”
“Next door neighbors.”
“You knew the de Seroux family?”
“I surely did. They used to come in every Saturday. Henry always ordered biscuits and gravy. Never ate anything different. That could have been a warning sign in itself.”
“Henry?”
“Henry de Seroux. More coffee?”
Laura put her hand over the mug, natural curiosity getting the better of her. “What did you mean by ‘warning sign?’”
Suddenly, Marlee looked uncomfortable. “It was a long time ago. You don’t want to hear about that.”
Something bad—Laura could feel it. The judge’s statement, Chief Redbone’s evasions. He hadn’t told her anything about the de Serouxs. “What did he do?”
“I guess it’s no secret. He killed his own family.”
35
Laura stared at Marlee’s mouth, the net of wrinkles moving. Now that Laura had finally pried it out of her, Marlee was happy to share the gory details. “Slaughtered his wife and two little girls one afternoon, then turned the gun on himself. Shotgun—heard he had to use his big toe.”
“What about his son?”
“His son? Oh, the little boy. He died when he was younger—had leukemia. Can’t remember his name.”
“Then who’s Jimmy de Seroux?”
“Well, he could be a cousin. But that’s no de Seroux.” She tapped one long, lacquered nail on the photocopy. “That there is Dale Lundy. I know that because his daddy died must be eight, nine years ago, and he’s the spitting image of his father.”
Laura was having trouble absorbing this. “Dale lives here?”
“He might’ve come back, I don’t know. When his father died, an aunt took him in. She lived in Alabama.”
“You knew the father well?”
“Just to say ‘hi’ to. Not that he was what you’d call friendly. Bill was an oysterman.”
“And this Dale—did you know him?”
“Not hardly. I don’t think anybody saw much of that kid.”
Laura couldn’t make sense of what she was hearing, but she asked anyway. “Why was that?
”
“His mother home-schooled him. Nothing wrong with that, plenty do, but there was more there than met the eye.” Marlee refilled Laura’s cup. “That’s a story in itself. She ran off and left the boy and his father to their own devices.”
Laura was still trying to reconcile the one man and two names.
Marlene continued, “Alene Lundy belonged to some religious group. These days you’d call it a cult. Everybody knew she was a little strange and she seemed to get worse, keeping to herself, keeping that son of hers away from other kids, and you know that’s not natural. If any family was going to end in tragedy, I’d a bet it would have been them, not the de Serouxs.” She nodded to the photo. “I don’t know who’s been pulling your leg, but that’s Dale Lundy.”
Laura caught Redbone as he was coming down the stairs of the police department. “Why didn’t you tell me about the de Seroux family?”
He paused in the stairwell, a Co’ Cola in his hand, the heat making his proximity stiflingly close. Laura saw little lumps of ice on the bottle. A Co’ Cola would really hit the spot right now, but for once he didn’t offer her one.
“Can’t talk now. I’m on my way to a meeting,” Redbone said, continuing down the stairs. Laura followed him out into the heat haze.
“I want to know why you didn’t tell me about the de Seroux murders.”
“Holy Jesus Lord, it’s hot today.” He pressed the Coke bottle to his sweating cheek. Perspiration like giant inkblots soaked his shirt. Looked at her. Good ol’ boy with eyes of steel. “That de Seroux story was a long time ago. That’s why.”
“Maybe so, but it could have affected my case.”
“And how would that be?”
“Whether it did or not, you should have let me know. At least then I’d have some idea what I was dealing with.”
“He’s a cousin from the outside,” he said, stressing the word “outside." “He had nothing to do with any of that.”
“You had to know I’d find out. A mass murder in a small town isn’t—“
“That’s all water under the bridge. Folks here don’t like to talk about it. We don’t like to even think about it.”
