“You said he was put off easily?” she asked him.
“Say if somebody hurt his feelings, he’d withdraw. I think it was because he was shy. Somebody said one wrong thing to him, he’d just clam up. Just up and leave. That’s why he was always bouncing around between Bisbee and here. He didn’t like being criticized, took it to heart.”
“He ever get in fights?”
“Nope. When something bothered him, he’d pack up his stuff and take off.” Beau Taylor stared at the shimmering white heat beyond the open doorway.
“You’re sure he was friends with Chuck Lehman.”
“Oh yeah. It was always Chuck this and Chuck that. Guy knew everything. Nobody else knew shit. But that all changed a couple of weeks ago.”
“They had a falling out?”
“Kid wouldn’t talk about it, but you should’ve seen the look on his face when I asked about him.”
“This was a couple of weeks ago?”
“Last time he came down here.”
“Could you pinpoint the date?”
“I think it was a Sunday. We’re closed Sundays, plus we go to church." He rolled his chair over to the counter under the window and consulted a greasy-looking desk calendar. “Sunday. End of June.”
“Did he fight with his girlfriend much?”
“They had their set-to’s. But he was in love with her and in love with her family—couldn’t say what he loved more. His mother wasn’t worth much, and he always wanted a family.”
“Cary was eighteen. An adult. How come he wasn’t out on his own?”
“He attached himself to people. He was needy and a loner at the same time.”
“Was Jessica a friend of Lehman’s, too?”
“I’m pretty sure she was. Cary mentioned a couple of times they did things together.”
“Didn’t it seem strange to you? A man that much older hanging out with kids?”
“I didn’t have a say in it. As you said, he was an adult.”
Laura opened her mouth to say that Jessica wasn’t an adult—and that was when her cell phone chirped.
Sylvia Clegg, standing on a chair in the closet, felt hard plastic behind the piles of folded blankets stored for the summer.
She pulled down a videotape just as she heard the toilet flush.
The tape was called Pubic Enemy No. 1. The heart-warming story of a gangster who finds love in a hot sheet motel with two vertically-challenged girls.
“What’s that?” said Detective Buddy Holland from the doorway.
“Buddy, you didn’t use the bathroom, did you?”
He held up his hands, gloved in latex. “You gotta go, you gotta go. What’s that? Porno?”
“You’re in here now, you might as well come and look at this.”
She held the tape out to him. He didn’t touch; just looked. “What do you think?”
“Girls could be twenty, or they could be sixteen. Hard to tell these days.”
“Definitely not little girls, though." She stepped back up and reached into the closet, pulled out more of tapes.
Buddy remained in the room, hands on his hips, watching her.
“Where’s Chuck?” she asked him.
“He’s still out back, stewing." He added, “The DPS guy left, has to witness the autopsy.”
“You really aren’t supposed to be in here.”
“I know.” He made a slow circuit of the room, peering at things without touching. “Anything besides the porno?”
“Not that I can see.”
“Too bad." Buddy shone his MagLite at the back of Chuck Lehman’s dresser.
“Buddy, what are you doing?”
“There’s a gap between the dresser and the wall.”
“So?”
He looked at her. “Did you look to see if anything fell back there?”
Sylvia felt a twinge of embarrassment. “I’m not done yet.”
Buddy continued to stand over the dresser. He was looking at something.
Sylvia got down off the chair and set the videotapes down on the floor. “What is it?”
Buddy pointed his flashlight behind the dresser. She came to stand next to him and peered down. Something there. A cylinder.
She went and got a videotape, which was just narrow enough to fit behind the dresser. She caught the thing with the corner, scooting it toward her.
“Bingo,” Buddy said as a lipstick tube rolled across the floor.
20
They served the search warrant for Chuck Lehman’s house at six o’clock the next morning, pulling Lehman out of bed. He slept in something that looked like a karate gi, and for a minute Laura wondered if he was going to launch an assault at them. He looked mad enough to bust a brick with his hand.
Anger boiled out of him, his eyes burning pure hatred, like twin gas flames.
Nudging the red line.
A lot had happened since Buddy Holland found the lipstick. Most notably, a partial print on the lipstick matched Jessica Parris’s index finger from the print cards taken by the Sierra Vista Medical Examiner—an eight-point match. Laura, Buddy and Victor had spent most of the night hashing out what they wanted on the search warrant, which Laura and Buddy would get from a judge in Bisbee. It was important they didn’t leave anything out—any area not spelled out by a warrant would be inaccessible to them. And so it became a name game: books, diaries, computer disks, the computer itself. Anything in the sewing line. Makeup, hairpieces, spirit gum and false mustaches. Kites. Indoor and outdoor trash. All cleaning products. Personal grooming products and grooming products for the dog: shampoos, soap, nail scissors, pet-grooming equipment. Financial records, receipts, check books, credit card information. Tools. His car, his yard, his garden shed.
Victor remained in Tucson, catching up on the paperwork they’d accumulated so far.
Buddy took the bedroom. Laura started in the living room and moved on to the kitchen.
The stainless steel appliances would show fingerprints, smudges, if they had not been wiped clean with glass cleaner. She didn’t know if he had cleaned everything recently to cover up Jessica’s presence in his house, or if this was just the way he was. The place had been neat when they’d come here yesterday. Maybe he was just a neat kind of guy.
She got on her hands and knees, looking for hairs or other evidence. Found several graying hairs and some dog hairs but nothing long or blond. She took them as evidence.
Now for the refrigerator.
Lehman favored health foods, green leafy vegetables, white wine. A healthy guy. A neat guy and a healthy guy.
Expecting to move on pretty quickly, she slid out the crisper.
A chill crept up her back. The only occupant of the crisper was a screenplay. CANDY RIDE.
She hunkered down on her heels and aimed the MagLite at the script. After fixing its position in the crisper, she reached a gloved hand in and lifted it out.
She felt breathing on her neck. Buddy.
“Why would he keep a screenplay in the crisper?” Laura muttered.
Buddy shrugged. “To hide it, I guess. I wonder what’s so bad about it he has to hide it.”
Carefully, Laura pushed back the cardboard cover and read the first page.
Buddy, leaning over her, whistled, low.
The scene started with the abduction of a teenaged girl.
Buddy said, “Sick fuck.”
“You could look at it another way.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“He hid it in the crisper.”
Laura stared at the first page, thinking that it could go either way. People wrote what came from their imaginations; it didn’t mean that they did what they wrote about. “Maybe he’s serious. Maybe he’s trying to sell a screenplay.”
Buddy just stared at her.
“Are you done with the bedroom?” she asked.
“I wanted to tell you. Couldn’t find anything in the bedclothes. He changed the sheets.”
“You sure?”
“They were black yesterday and they’re blue plaid now.”
She absorbed this. “He was afraid we’d come back.”
Buddy looked grim, which prompted her to ask, “What else?”
“What do you mean, what else?”
“There’s something else. What is it?”
“I think he vacuumed the bedroom. Place is so clean it’s sterile.”
Laura thought about the appliance surfaces. “He could just be a neat kind of guy.”
“Yes, except I checked his vacuum cleaner. And his hand vac. New bags.”
“So what he did, the minute we left, he vacuumed." She thought of something. “Why’d he leave the screenplay in the crisper?”
“He didn’t think we’d look there.”
“If it was me, I’d get rid of any evidence of it. He’d have to know we’d look in the refrigerator. He’d have to know we’d be thorough this time around.”
“How else do you explain it, then?”
“I don’t know. Did you find any floppy disks?”
“I found a box of them. Didn’t look at them, though. Some of these guys have a program where they can destroy everything on the hard disk if someone unauthorized logs on. No way I’d turn that puppy on.”
Laura concealed her disappointment. “He could hide e-mails on those disks, right?”
“Oh, sure he could." He straightened up and she heard his knees crack.
Forensics on a computer would take weeks, sometimes months, depending how careful he was in getting rid of any incriminating evidence. Just deleting files wouldn’t protect him for very long. Most of what was on his hard drive would be retrievable through various means, but it would take a long time.
She wondered if they’d finally find CRZYGRL12.
Ted Olsen stroked the beard lying on his chest as if it were a pet ferret. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “The mustache made a big difference.”
The owner of Cooger & Dark’s Pandemonium Show and Emporium squinted again at the row of six photographs on the table in the conference room at the Bisbee Police Department. He wore a polyester short-sleeved shirt, so thin Laura could see the individual hairs on his back. She noticed his odor, a peculiar combination of chicken soup and pencil shavings.
Buddy Holland alternated between leaning over him and pacing the small cubicle. “You sure?” he asked now. “Do you know any of these men?”
“That’s Chuck Lehman.”
“Think about what he’d look like if he had a mustache.”
Trying to influence the witness.
But Ted Olsen wouldn’t be influenced. His shifted onto one buttock and removed a snot-caked handkerchief from his back pocket, blew his nose. Leaned back and looked. Leaned forward so his eye was close to the photo. Leaned back again and scratched an armpit.
Milking it for all it was worth.
Finally he shook his head. “It could be Chuck. But I can’t tell without the mustache. He has blue eyes,” he added helpfully.
“What about his voice. Did his voice sound like Chuck’s?” Buddy asked.
Laura shot him a warning look, but he ignored her.
Olsen considered this, but finally shook his head. “I’m not sure, and I can’t put a man in jeopardy if I’m not sure.”
“I think we’re done here,” Laura said wearily.
She was surprised at the virulence in the gaze Buddy shot her. He reached down and swept up the photos.
“Thank you for your help, sir,” Laura said.
He looked up at her. “Sorry I couldn’t help.”
“You did the right thing. If you could give me your opinion on these." She showed him photographs of the dress Jessica Parris had worn in death. “What about this dress? Do you recognize the pattern?”
He stroked his beard, then clasped his hands over his stomach. “Looks familiar … I never made that one.”
“Why not?” asked Buddy.
“Because I don’t like the sleeves. Too puffy.”
“But you’ve seen something like this before?”
“It could be in the catalog. Online.”
“And that would be?”
He marked them off on his fingers. “Inspirational Woman, Satin and Lace, Lynette’s Originals, Darcy’s Dress Shoppe …”
Laura wrote them down. “Must be a popular style.”
“It’s kind of alternative clothing, you know? The stuff girls wear today—kids in thongs, those midriff blouses.”
“You don’t like that kind of thing?” asked Laura.
“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.”
The Laura Cardinal Novels Page 11
