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 d
rive. “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.”
“So the piano player is Jimmy de Seroux.”
“He is to the best of my knowledge.”
“What does that mean?”
He shrugged. “I know the family had cousins somewhere. He showed up and said he was a cousin. He owned the house. That was good enough for me. People here mind their own business.”
“But didn’t you wonder about his resemblance to Lundy?”
“I thought that wasn’t any of my business either.”
“What? Oh.” She got the inflection. “You think Bill Lundy might have—”
“I think we’ve aired enough dirty laundry for one day." He unlocked his car.
She persisted. “How would that happen?”
He took off his straw hat and placed the Coke against his forehead, smearing his dripping coils of hair. “The way it always happens, I guess.”
“You’re saying Bill Lundy and Mrs. De Seroux had an affair?”
“Look, missy, I don’t know. Could be a lot of things happened. Henry had a sister, a real spinster type, if you’ll excuse the saying. She lived there for a while. Don’t ask when because I don’t remember. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late.”
“I want you to run Dale Lundy for me.”
“When I get back I’ll do it first thing,” he said, hefting his bulk into his unit.
The doors to the Apalachicola Times were locked—closed, even though it was the middle of the day. So Laura went looking for the library.
The library was located on a quiet Apalachicola street; a red brick, one-story building with white trim. Laura asked the librarian if she had newspapers or microfiche dating back to the time of the de Seroux murders.
The librarian looked at her, a vague uneasiness creeping into her deep violet eyes. She was a pretty woman, powdered and small, somewhere in her thirties. “The de Seroux murders?”
“That’s what I heard. Someone named Henry de Seroux killed his wife and daughters here in Apalachicola.”
The librarian looked shocked. “When was this?”
“A long time ago. It’s not something that people would forget, though.”
Definitely flustered. “Excuse me, let me take a look, see what I have on the database.”
She went into the back room. Laura waited.
At last she returned. “I couldn’t find any references on the computer, but that doesn’t mean anything. We have back issues of the Times going back to the mid-seventies.”
“So you never heard that story? Have you lived here long?”
“Twelve years.”
“I guess it would be before that then.” A mass murder would appear on the front page, so all she’d have to do was look for the headlines. She’d start with 1990 and work her way back from there.
The librarian took her to the little alcove where the microfiche machine was. She showed L
aura how to wind the tape on the spool, and Laura let her, although she’d done this many times before.
There was no reference to a mass murder in 1990. Or 1989, 1988, 1987.
By the time she got to 1983, her neck was beginning to ache.
And then she saw it: Page One, June 12, 1983.
“LOCAL MAN KILLS FAMILY, SELF”
She read quickly, getting more excited as she read.
Henry de Seroux, a respected dentist and family man, had cancelled the newspaper subscription, the water, the electricity, and the gas; gave his golf clubs to his surprised receptionist; and went home to kill his family and himself.
No mention of a young man who could be a cousin. No mention of any other family at all.
There was a picture of the family, though. A studio portrait with a gauzy, blue background. The two girls were pretty and blond. One of them, sitting on her mother’s lap, was five or six. Her name was Carrie. The other, standing, was older—eleven? Twelve?
Marisa.
She looked familiar, and Laura suddenly realized why. Marisa de Seroux looked a lot like Linnet Sobek.
And Alison Burns.
And Jessica Parris.
Laura hit the button to photocopy the page.
Back in her room, Laura started a fresh page of her legal pad. Looking for links.
1) The XRV tire treads in de Seroux’s driveway were the same make and type as the ones found up on West Boulevard.
2) The resemblance among Alison Burns, Jessica Parris, Linnet Sobek, and Marisa de Seroux was uncanny.
3) Jimmy de Seroux might or might not be a man named Dale Lundy, the son of the next door neighbor.
4) Dale Lundy/Jimmy de Seroux—whoever he really was—had access to the original proofs of Pete Dorrance’s publicity photos.
5) Laura herself had seen him at the Copper Queen Hotel.
She stared at the list. A couple of things occurred to her immediately.
The Laura Cardinal Novels Page 20
