by Louise Ure
The phone on his desk bleated again. He barked a greeting.
“It’s Gary Cheney at the front desk. There’s a man here to see you. Says it’s important.”
Just what he needed. Another well-intentioned citizen who thought he had all the answers. Or another one of those psychics who knew they did. The last one that called said Beatrice could be found in the shadow of a thirty-foot saguaro with a cactus wren’s nest in it. As if that didn’t describe most of the area around Tucson.
“What does he want?”
“He says his name is Darren Toller.”
Dupree sprang to attention. This could be a joke, or maybe Cheney hadn’t heard the man right. Maybe he was saying this was about Toller.
“Blond hair? Round face?” He held up the copy of Toller’s California driver’s license.
“Yes.”
“Does he have a young boy and a seventeen-year-old girl with him?”
“No.”
Cheney was being careful with his words; Toller must be standing right in front of him.
“Tell him I’m in a meeting, but I’ll be right there. Whatever you do, don’t let him out of your sight.”
Dupree hung up and grabbed his sport coat off the back of the chair. He reached over and depressed the button on his partner’s phone, disconnecting the call. He spotted the two newest recruits on the unit, John Garnet and Aaron Phipps, at the coffeemaker.
“Get Garnet and Phipps. Darren Toller just walked in the front door. He’s waiting for us in the lobby.”
They agreed that Nellis would position himself in the lobby first, and the other two officers would go down the back stairs and come in through the lobby door. Dupree gave them a one-minute head start.
He paused behind the glass railing on the mezzanine level. Cheney was sequestered in a small bulletproof cubicle on the far north side of the lobby, where he could check IDs before admitting anyone to the building. There was a plate-size vented area at mouth height to speak through and a sliding tray he could push out like a teller at a bank’s drive-through window. Cheney spotted Dupree at the top of the stairs and gestured with his head toward a blond man seated in one of the lobby’s dozen well-padded armchairs.
The man was heavyset, but it looked like fat rather than muscle. He wore an untucked pale yellow shirt over loose khaki pants. His legs were spread and he leaned forward so that his elbows almost reached his knees. His head hung down and his hands were clasped as if in prayer.
Dupree made a quick scan of the room. He recognized a public defender he’d worked with standing near Cheney’s cubicle. A Latino family huddled uncertainly in the middle of the room. Nellis was on the far side of the family in front of the large glass display case, in a position where they would not block his view of Toller. Phipps and Garnet were entering the lobby from the Stone Street side.
Dupree unsnapped the guard over his Glock and descended the stairs. His right hand gripped the gun in the leather holster. “Darren Toller?” he said as he neared the man.
“Yes, I wanted to…”
The man rose in a rush and reached for Dupree’s right hand. Dupree jumped back, grabbed the man’s shoulder, and spun him around, then grabbed the back of Toller’s collar in an attempt to regain control.
Toller kept spinning, his arms wild and loose, and knocked the gun from Dupree’s hand. It clattered on the tile floor and slid between Toller’s feet. He bent at the waist and reached for it.
Gunfire blossomed from the street side of the lobby. To Dupree, it was all in slow motion. Nellis made a dive for the Latino family in the center of the room, brushing them into a heap of arms and legs against a row of chairs. The public defender held his briefcase up against his face like a hockey mask. Garnet and Phipps were frozen in target shooter stances by the lobby entrance, their bodies silhouetted by the sun coming through the glass doors behind them.
Toller lay like a broken marionette, his blood pooling on the tile floor.
“Toller! Where is the girl?”
Toller’s eyes grew wide, then dimmed into unconsciousness.
The desk sergeant called for an ambulance while Dupree knelt in the rivulets of blood seeping from Toller’s head. He didn’t care about preserving the scene. He had to find Beatrice. He felt for a pulse on Toller’s wet, red neck and lifted one closed eyelid.
“He’s still alive. Get him to the hospital. And I want someone with him the whole time, in case he regains consciousness.”
He turned to Phipps and Garnet. They had reholstered their weapons and looked pale and shaken.
“What the hell did you think you were doing? This is the only man who can lead us to Beatrice McDougall! And you go for a fucking head shot?” Their pallor increased.
“It looked like he was going for your gun…” Phipps ventured.
“Get his wallet, anything in his pockets,” Dupree told Garnet. “Maybe he’s got something on him that can lead us to the girl.”
Garnet retrieved a butt-shaped brown leather wallet from the back pocket of Toller’s pants. There were two keys—maybe ignition and trunk—on a beaded key chain in the front pocket.
The paramedics arrived in a flurry of activity, took readings, started IVs, and hoisted Toller’s body onto a gurney.
Dupree opened the wallet, thumbed past the California driver’s license and the Costco card, then took out a Wells Fargo ATM card. “Start with this.” He handed it to Nellis. “Find out where there’s been recent activity. It doesn’t look like he uses many credit cards, but if he’s withdrawing cash, he’s probably doing it close to home.”
Folded into the wallet’s bill compartment, Dupree found a receipt for a weekly apartment rental of a hundred and forty dollars. It showed that Toller had rented “Unit A” five days ago, but no address was given. The signature on the receipt was illegible, but it was flowery and flowing—probably a woman’s handwriting.
“You two start with this.” He passed the receipt to Garnet. “We need to find someplace with a Unit A that rents for a hundred forty a week. Go! She may still be alive.”
He collared a uniformed police officer who had rushed to the lobby at the sound of gunfire. “Come with me. We’re looking for a tan or brown Chevy Lumina parked nearby. It may still have California plates.” And please, God, let it also have a ten-year-old boy and a healthy seventeen-year-old girl inside.
Chapter 62
I perched at the foot of the bed and felt it shift when Juanita turned over.
“You must be feeling better.”
“I am.” Her voice was still soft. “Why?”
“Because you’re already on the second chocolate milk shake, and that one was supposed to be my lunch.”
“You should know better than to leave anything chocolate unattended around me.” She cleared her throat.
“Feel up to talking a little bit?”
“Sure. Just keep the chocolate coming.”
I filled her in on the forensic team’s work in my driveway and the discovery of the metal button. “Gene Howard was part of the team. I didn’t know the guy they had dusting for prints, but Gene said there were hairs wrapped around the bottom of the button and they’d probably be able to get DNA from them.”
“The latent print guy, really low voice, sounds like he ought to have four balls? Probably Brodie, the guy who printed Wanda Prentice’s house. He’s new—just moved here from Colorado—but he’s good.” She took another long draw on the straw. “If I don’t move around too much, I should be able to get back to work pretty soon.”
“Are you kidding? He almost killed you!” I had spent much of last night selfishly thinking about what my life would be like without my confidante/friend/taxi driver/bill payer. I grimaced, remembering the assassinated rocking chair cushion and my night terrors.
“Not for lack of trying,” Juanita said. She sucked on the chocolate again. “I forgot to tell you about the sign I saw at the Baptist church on my way over to your house. It’s one of those where you slip in the lette
rs, you know, so you can announce the topic of this week’s sermon. Know what it said? ‘Smoking section or nonsmoking. Where will you spend eternity?’”
“That’s not funny today.”
“Of course it is. Hey, Cadence, I’m going to be fine. He missed me. Well, almost. And the police are going to catch him.”
I was still trying to figure out how to keep Juanita in the hospital when Dupree entered the room. His soft-soled shoes made delicate sucking noises across the linoleum.
“Hey, August,” Juanita said. “How you doing?”
“Better than you. Although you’re looking pretty good there.” He placed his hand on my wrist and greeted me as well. The fatigue was clear in his voice.
“Where’s your partner?” Juanita asked.
“He’s trying to track something down. Actually, that’s the reason I came by. We’ve found Darren Toller, the man who owns that car you saw in the parking lot.”
“Yes!” Mine was a subdued celebration, a whispering announcer at a golf match. I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. “You’ve got him!” No more listening for clunky engines or rocking chairs. No more worrying that he’d come after Juanita or me again.
“He’s been shot, but he’s just come out of surgery and he’s upstairs here. I know it’s not exactly a regulation line-up, but if the nurses say it’s okay, I’d like you to come see him. See if you can identify him.”
Juanita was all business. “I didn’t get a good look at the man who attacked me, so I couldn’t give you an ID that would stand up in court, anyway. Cade, I’ll need some help with my robe. It’s on the chair to your left.”
Dupree left the room but was back in a moment with a wheelchair. Once Juanita was settled in, I put one hand on the back handle and walked beside the chair while Dupree pushed. He was thoughtful enough to keep the pace slow for my aching knee.
We took the elevator to the third floor. Dupree greeted a policeman who was posted just inside the door to a private room.
“He still hasn’t regained consciousness,” the officer said.
I hung back after we entered the room. There was nothing I could help with here. The wheelchair rolled closer.
“I only saw him from the side,” Juanita said. “And these bandages are covering part of his hair, but yes, this is the man who was driving the Chevy Lumina with the California plates we gave you.”
Dupree pulled the wheelchair back toward me. “Thank you, Juanita.”
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Move me back up there a minute.” The rubber tires moved forward and I heard her sniff.
“I know he’s been in surgery and they would have cleaned him up, but this doesn’t smell like the guy who attacked me. It was really strong. Like something that came straight out of his pores. Not like something you could wash off.”
“What are you saying?”
“I mean, this may not be the guy who attacked me.”
Chapter 63
“We’ve got it!” Garnet’s voice over the phone was loud with adrenaline. “It’s an apartment complex just off Swan and Grant Road, less than half a mile from the ATM where Toller’s been getting cash. The manager says she recognizes his picture. He rented the unit earlier in the week.”
“Get that property surrounded,” Dupree said, “but do not approach. Do you hear me? We don’t know if he’s working alone.” It had been three hours since Juanita Greene had identified Darren Toller as the man in the Chevy Lumina.
They’d found Toller’s minivan in the pay lot next to the police station. Toller’s mother had remembered the “I Can Fix It” sign on the door accurately. But there were no kids inside the car and no clues to where he’d left them. Dupree had the car secured for the forensic team.
If Toller died, they would have no way of finding Beatrice McDougall. Juanita wasn’t convinced that Darren Toller had attacked her. But if he was driving the car that Cadence Moran heard leaving Wanda Prentice’s house, he was most likely the same person who’d killed James McDougall and taken his daughter. The rental apartment was their only lead.
He checked that he had a full clip in the gun and one in the chamber, and donned a bulletproof vest. Nellis arranged for the additional units they’d need and they raced to their unmarked vehicle.
“Why the hell didn’t the apartment manager call it in?” Dupree clipped the curb with the rear tire as they careened around the corner. “We’ve had his damn picture up on every newscast since Wednesday.”
“Says she’s been out of town visiting her sister and just got back and saw it in the paper.”
The Agave Arms was a small complex: six stucco apartments shaped like shoe boxes and painted a dirty turquoise, arranged in a U-shape around a central parking area. There was a palm tree struggling to survive in the middle of the court, and a small, rusted hibachi had taken root beside it. Nellis evacuated the other apartments. The complex was calm and quiet in the morning air. A piñon jay broke the silence with a squawk as it dive-bombed a slinking cat along the western edge of the last apartment.
Unit A faced the street at the bottom of the left leg of the semicircle. The curtains were drawn.
Dupree signaled the SWAT team into position, their metal battering ram held by the first two officers in line. He nodded to the team leader and at the same moment yelled, “Police!” They smashed once near the latch and the hollow wooden door gave way.
Dupree was the first one through the opening. He saw a younger-than-teenage boy in the room, dark and thin, with a Frito halfway to his mouth. The boy dropped both the chip and his can of 7-Up when the door burst open. Dupree moved through the rest of the small apartment, checking the bathroom, under the bed, and in the closet. There was no sign of Beatrice McDougall.
He reholstered the gun. “Where is she? Where’s the girl?” The boy sat silent, his mouth agape.
A representative from Child Protective Services was already in the interview room, but Dupree didn’t want her to tell the boy about his father. Dupree had to do that himself. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
Even three people in such a tiny room made a crowd. Steven Toller sat at the small metal table with his hands clasped in front of him. The tears had dried into dusty lines on his face.
Mrs. Govern from CPS had placed her chair against the wall but in a position where Steven could easily see her. She reached over, gave him a sad smile, and patted his back.
“Your father has been hurt,” Dupree said. “The doctors are doing all they can and we’ll take you to see him just as soon as possible.”
Ten-year-old Steven was steely in his posture but panic rose in his eyes, like a crash test dummy that had come to life the moment before impact.
“We’re looking for a girl named Beatrice. She’s seventeen years old with blondish hair. Have you seen her? Did your father bring her home in the last few days?”
Steven looked at him with confusion. “I haven’t seen a girl like that. We’ve been up at the Grand Canyon. We got back real late last night. My dad said he was going to straighten everything out.”
“Your dad was going to straighten what out, Steven?”
“We saw his picture on TV last night and the reporter said the police were looking for him. Dad said he was going to go down to the police station to explain everything. Tell them they were looking for the wrong man.”
Was Toller giving himself up? Or were they looking for the wrong man and Toller was really coming to tell them that?
Had Toller reached for Dupree’s gun? Or had he stuck out his hand for a shake?
“Let’s go over exactly what you’ve done since you got here.” Maybe there was evidence that could still place Toller at the scene, and this kid was lying for him. Or maybe Toller snuck away from the rental apartment while Steven slept and killed Prentice and McDougall. But what was his connection to the two victims?
Juanita Greene might be right: maybe Toller was at the grocery store, but he wasn’t the one who attacked her and therefore not the ki
ller. Dupree wasn’t willing to give up yet, but there was a place in his heart—like a deep bruise too painful to touch—that said Toller was the wrong man and had been shot for no reason at all.
Chapter 64
The doctor told me that he was willing to release Juanita from the hospital, as long as she didn’t expect to be home by herself. “She’s got a lot of stitches and she’s going to be sore for a while.” A lot sorer than my banged-up knee, that was for sure. I knew how close we’d come to losing her.
Juanita’s mother put on a full-court press to get her to move back home with the family, but Juanita refused. “She’d have priests in every room, going all extreme unction on me. Caldo de queso and pork adobo from here to the front door. There’s no way.”
Although I wouldn’t have minded the adobo or the cheese-and-potato soup, I convinced both the Greenes and the hospital that I could take care of her at my place. “I’m a good cook and hell on wheels with a cell phone if there’s trouble.” I didn’t want to tell them that I wanted the company to keep the spooks away at night too.
Books Greene gave us a ride home from the hospital.
Juanita stretched out on the couch, with each limb buttressed by soft pillows. I supplied the iced tea and started a big pot of posole, but the soup wouldn’t be ready for hours. By noon, her restlessness was apparent. She had channel surfed past a sexy thriller and two good cooking shows, her nails tapping on the end table. When she threw the newspaper across the room, I knew I’d have to accommodate her wishes or tie her down.
“I’ve got to get to work,” she announced. “Just to check in. We’re losing too much time.”
“He almost killed you, Juanita. You’re going to need some time to get your strength back.”
“Who do you think you are, my Guardian Anglo?”
