The Laura Cardinal Novels

by J. Carson Black

  Punching in 1411, Laura requested the number for the Copper Queen Hotel in Bisbee, Arizona, then called the hotel. The front desk answered.

  “I wonder if you could help me,” Laura said. “I was in the bar last weekend when you had the pianist there. I liked him so much I asked if he could play for my wedding. We exchanged cards, but I can’t find his anywhere, and the wedding is in three weeks. Could you help me out? I think his name was …" She looked at her notes. Jimmy or Dale: Pick one. “Dale.”

  “Let me take a look,” the woman replied. “Hold on.” The phone clattered.

  A minute passed before the woman picked up again. “Dale Lundy, right? He’s playing this weekend, too. All I have is a cell phone number.” She recited it.

  “Thanks so much! This will make all the difference.”

  “Just make sure you have a good photographer. I stinted, and it was the worst mistake we ever made. Good luck!”

  Laura loved small towns. People still saw strangers as human beings.

  Next, Laura opened her laptop and connected to the Internet. She’d already bookmarked TalentFish.com. She opened it up now and compared the Talentfish photos of Peter Dorrance to the one Detective Endicott sent her.

  One of the Talentfish photos, the three-quarters shot in front of the house, was almost identical to the photo from Alison Burn’s computer. Laura held the five-by-seven digital printout up near the computer, eyeballing one and then the other.

  In the Talentfish photo, Laura could see half the saw palmetto fronds behind Dorrance, but in the Burns photograph, she could see only one-third. Dorrance’s smile was different, too. Just a millimeter this way or that.

  Laura had been to photo sessions before. A photographer took many shots of one pose. The Talentfish photo and the Burns photo were in the same sequence, but slightly different.

  She reached Myrna Gorman at the Strand Talent Agency on the first try. “How many different photos do you have of Peter Dorrance?” she asked.

  “I’ll have to look to be sure, but usually we get a headshot and a composite.”

  “How many in the composite?”

  “Three or four.”

  “Did he send his photos to Talentfish.com or did you?”

  “We did. We have an agreement with them. You want to hold? I’ll get his file.”

  When she came back she said, “It’s what I thought. We sent the composite. Four pictures.”

  “Can you describe them for me?”

  They corresponded with what she saw on the screen. Laura found Chief Redbone’s card and asked her to fax them to the Apalachicola Police Department.

  She didn’t need any more convincing, though.

  The digital photo that had been sent to Alison Burns did not correspond to any of the photographs up on Talentfish.com. That meant that no one could have downloaded the photo and sent it on to Alison Burns. Either Peter Dorrance had placed publicity shots on another site, or the person who sent the photo had access to all the rolls of film they shot that day.

  That meant either Peter Dorrance or Dale Lundy sent the photo to Alison Burns.

  And Peter Dorrance wasn’t playing at the Copper Queen Hotel next weekend.

  “He’s not gonna like seeing us again so quick,” Chief Redbone said as he turned onto Avenue B. “If we get the warrant, let’s do it tomorrow. That old house hasn’t been lived in for a long time. It can wait till morning.”

  Thaddeus Lanier lived in a large, Federalist, red brick building with a gracious white portico and two tall live oaks dressed in widow’s weeds.

  Laura was feeling good—especially after they ran Lundy on NCIC. Unlike Jimmy de Seroux, Lundy had two arrests for sexual offenses: peeping and masturbating outside a grade school, both in Dothan, Alabama. One when he was twenty years old, another when he’d just turned twenty-one.

  Nothing since then, but if he was the man she thought he was, Lundy had learned to fly under the radar, graduating from peeping and masturbating to taking young girls. His crimes fit into a predictable time line, a clear trajectory. He had been given time to develop predilections and rituals—like dressing girls up in his doll dresses.

  He’d learned his craft.

  Laura had no doubt he kept a rape kit in his motor home with all the tools he needed to capture, subdue, and kill his victim.

  She had been right about the motor home. Dale Lundy owned a 1987 Fleetwood Pace Arrow. He also owned the house next door to the de Seroux house—the one she’d noticed because it was boarded up.

  Vindication.

  The Lundy house had been empty and boarded up since Bill Lundy died all those years ago, but had never been put up for sale. Dale Lundy had used the address when he bought the motor home, and it was the address listed on his credit cards.

  They crossed the neat lawn and knocked on the front door.

  Lanier appeared in khakis and a knit shirt—relaxing after a hard day of torpedoing search warrants. A dour, long-faced man with wire glasses perched on his nose, he looked down that nose now. Two grouchy-looking King Charles spaniels barked and yapped at his feet. “What do you want now?” he asked.

  Redbone scratched his ear. “Well, Thad, more evidence just turned itself up. Looks pretty convincing to me.”

  “Very well.” Lanier opened the door and stood back.

  The front room was palatial. High ceilings, plaster rosettes in the corners. A gleaming hardwood floor. A grand piano with a mirror finish. Striped silk Queen Anne chairs.

  Lanier led the way to his study, followed by the two muttering King Charles spaniels. He sat down at his massive mahogany desk and directed them to sit, too.

  His sigh was long-suffering. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  He perched the glasses farther down on his nose and started reading.

  Twenty minutes later, they had their search warrant.

  36

  “Here’s what I want to do,” Laura said to Chief Redbone outside the police station early the next morning. “I want one officer on the back door, and the rest of us will go in the front.”

  “I don’t know we need to do that,” Redbone said. “The place is boarded up and you said yourself this guy is in Arizona. We don’t have to go running in there like we’re looking for terrorists or something.”

  He had a point, but it was not one Laura would concede. She didn’t care if the place was boarded up, she wanted a safe entry. She outlined it for him: she, Redbone, and one officer would take the front, and the third officer would take the back. She would position herself to the left of the front door, and Redbone and his officer would take the right.

  She said to Redbone, “I’ll go low and you go high. Your officer will go low. That way I’ll cover the right side of the house, and you’ll take care of the left.”

  He shrugged. “You’re calling the shots.”

  Jerry Oliver drove up and got out of his car.

  Redbone called out, “Jerry, you ever check that steak knife of Ginny Peacock’s into evidence?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s safe in the trunk.”

  “Why don’t you do it now?”

  “Can’t it wait until after we do the entry?”

  “No, it can’t wait.” Redbone looked at Laura. “Tell you what. You go with Officer Descartes, and Oliver and I’ll be right behind you.”

  Warning her, perhaps, what caliber of officer Jerry Oliver was. She hoped Descartes was better.

  Officer Descartes, it turned out, was much better.

  “How’s that strep throat, Andy?” Redbone asked as a young man in an Apalachicola PD uniform emerged from the City Hall building. Redbone turned to Laura. “Got him out of bed for this thing.”

  “I’m fine now, sir,” Descartes said. “The antibiotics pretty much knocked it out.”

  Redbone introduced them. “I hope that pretty wife of yours is taking care of you.” Redbone winked at Laura. “Newlyweds.”

  Laura noticed the unmistakable outline of a protective vest under Descartes’s u
niform. That made two of them. She’d asked Redbone earlier if he had Kevlar vests, and he’d said that the city council was still considering if it was a necessary expense. Evidently Officer Andrew Descartes had ordered the vest on his own. And unlike Jerry Oliver, Descartes’s uniform was pressed and his brass polished.

  The trip to Lundy’s house covered only a few blocks, allowing Laura to get a feel for the third member of the Apalachicola PD. She ran down her plan.

  “Are we clear on that?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “You might think because the place is boarded up that this should be a cakewalk.”

  Before she could continue he said, “I don’t think that, ma’am.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was taught at the Academy you always need a plan. I mean, think about it, the bad guy might—have a plan. And if he does and you don’t, you could get yourself and others killed.” He came to a stop at an intersection, scanning the street with sharp eyes. “Besides, you know what you’re going to do, you practice it, then if things go bad on you, you’ll probl’y come out all right because you fell back on your training.”

  “You sure you feel up to this?” she asked. “Strep throat is nothing to fool around with.”

  “I’m fine. Those antibiotics kick major—they really do the job.”

  On Fifteenth Street now, he made a pass by the Lundy house. He didn’t slow down, didn’t give any hint that this was the house he was interested in, although his eyes missed nothing. He reached the end of the block, turned, and parked out of sight of the house. He turned off the engine, tapped the wheel with his fingers. Geared up.

  “Have you ever done this before?” she asked him.

  “No ma’am.”

  “I’m not worried,” she said. “Just trust your instincts.”

  Right now, her instincts told her that at least one member of the three-man Apalachicola Police Department wasn’t up for this. Even sick, Descartes looked like the better bet.

  She stepped out into the warm morning. The grass and hedges were still soggy with dew and the street was quiet—no one around. Good. A tickle of excitement in her own gut. Nervousness. Not unusual, but something to acknowledge. Mentally she took inventory: the Sig Sauer forty caliber under her blazer, the S&W nine millimeter in her boot, handcuffs tucked into the back pocket of her slacks. Flashlight. Pepper spray. Gloves.

  They walked up to the corner. An Apalachicola PD patrol car came up the street. To Laura’s dismay, it stopped right in front of Lundy’s house. Might as well be a flashing sign. Laura wasn’t surprised to see Jerry Oliver emerge from the driver’s side.

  She regretted not pushing Chief Redbone to request a SWAT response from the sheriff’s office. She knew the chief was smart, and there was no question he knew his town. But he might be out of his depth here. If it weren’t for the fact that the house was boarded up, she would call this off now.

  She let Redbone outline the problem, only interjecting to say that she wanted Descartes to take the back and Oliver to remain in front with them. She wanted Jerry Oliver where she could keep an eye on him.

  As Redbone parroted her earlier instructions, Laura looked the house over. Like its neighbor, it was clapboard—modest compared to some of the houses on this street. The original color was Wedgewood blue trimmed with white, but the wood had weathered to gray. Plywood had been hammered across the windows, the front door barred by several planks. As they crossed the leaf-littered yard, an enormous magnolia tree swallowed them in dark shade. Some kind of hedge Laura didn’t recognize grew around the house, something with thorns. It had gone wild, obscuring several of the windows. The porch was festooned with Virginia creeper that in some places had died but remained, snarled and gray like a spider web.

  Gun ready, Laura crept up to the house at an angle, even though no one could see out the windows. She stood to the left of the door, which would open inward. But first, it would have to be stripped of the planks that had been hammered across it.

  Redbone nodded to Oliver, who pried up the boards with the sharp end of a crowbar. When he was done, Oliver threw the crowbar on the grass with a hollow bang.

  Laura crouched down, looking over to see that both Redbone and Oliver were in position. She caught Oliver’s eye and nodded toward the gun on his hip. He sighed heavily and drew his weapon. Redbone checked the radio to make sure Descartes was stationed at the back door.

  The radio crackled. He was in position.

  Redbone tested the knob on the door. Locked. He nodded to Oliver, who re-holstered his weapon, retrieved the crowbar, and bashed the lock with repeated blows. The door creaked open a couple of inches.

  This time when Oliver threw the crowbar, it nearly took out Laura’s foot. He caught her look and had the grace to look sheepish. He again withdrew his weapon, but held it loosely at his side, pointed down and dangling a little behind his leg.

  She thought: I hope his complacency doesn’t catch up with him someday.

  She dropped into a crouch. Looked at Oliver again. He assumed a crouching position and raised his gun. Redbone remained standing, aiming his weapon toward the left. Laura shouted, “Police! Search Warrant!” and shoved the door the rest of the way open, swinging back and forth into the dark, her weapon leveled on empty air.

  37

  The word that came to her was “surreal”. As if she were in the middle of a snow globe, but the snow was the dust motes that floated in the golden light from the open doorway. Glittering snowflakes falling across the jumping beam of her MagLite.

  It floated out of the darkness at her, this strange, cluttered room. Too much to assimilate right now. She didn’t have time.

  “Clear!” she called as she ducked into the doorway to her left. Another light—Redbone’s—jumped into the darkness, a weak ray. She was in the kitchen. Counter, sink, refrigerator—

  “Kitchen is clear!”

  Her flashlight swung in the other direction as Laura heard Oliver scrambling toward the doorway on the other side.

  “Bedroom is clear!” Oliver shouted.

  They went through the house, systematically clearing every room. Laura saw things that she did not expect to see, but it was so dark she would reserve judgment until they could get light on the situation. They returned to the first room, the living room.

  Despite her wariness, respiration was beginning to return to normal. They’d checked every closet, every alcove. No one home.

  The place smelled stale.

  Oliver holstered his weapon and stretched his neck as Andrew Descartes entered through the front door. Jerry Oliver would not be punished for his inattention today.

  “Let’s get some light in here,” Laura said. “Get the rest of that plywood off.”

  38

  Once the plywood was off, there was enough light to search some of the rooms, but not all. Redbone got on the horn and made arrangements for a gas-powered generator and a pair of 500-watt quartz lamps from the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department.

  There was enough light, though, for Laura to think she had stepped inside an old photograph of a Victorian house—something you’d see in a history book.

  The front room—the parlor—seemed to press in on her. A stamped tin ceiling, an old-fashioned chandelier, dark furniture, burgundy velvet drapes swagged to reveal immaculate white lace. Everything fringed, shirred, swagged, or flocked. The wallpaper was dark, the floor dominated by a large oriental carpet. Oval portraits on the walls in old, convex glass. Bric-a-brac everywhere: china cabinet, ottoman, settee, footstools—

  So much of it.

  Ottoman, settee … Words people didn’t use anymore: A room out of the nineteenth century. The operative word here was fussy.

  “Good Lord Jesus,” muttered Redbone. “It looks like a museum.”

  Laura’s attention was caught by a sewing machine, modern vintage, on a table. Another sewing machine that looked exactly like the first one except smaller—a child’s machine?—sat on a shorter table.
<
br />   Laura’s throat felt dry as her latexed hand pulled open the many drawers and searched alcoves neatly stacked with patterns, thread spools, bobbins, measuring tapes.

  Him and his mom, sewing together in the good old days?

  But it still confused her.

  This room confused her.

  A Bible stand in the corner of the room, old and well-used. On the inside it said, “This Bible belongs to Alene Davis.”

  His mother’s maiden name.

  This room had a surreal quality, as if all she had to do was close her eyes and when she opened them again she’d see an abandoned house with plywood windows and cracking plaster.

  She ran an index finger across an oval rosewood table. Dust. Several layers. But other than that, the place was clean. The dust was the only sign that Lundy had not been here for a long time. Everything was neatly displayed, a tableau.

  A shrine?

  She bent to look at the underside of the rosewood table: Ethan Allen—the store.

  Not an antique then. An approximation of an antique.

  She flashed her light on the ceiling. It might have been stamped tin, or plastic made to look like stamped tin.

  Watching where she walked, Laura went down the hall.

  She looked in on a bedroom. It, too, looked frozen in time. A single bed with lace and eyelet Victorian linens, a down comforter, heaps of satin pillows. A wooden rocking horse. Enormous dry flower arrangements in tall vases. Dolls on a window seat.

  A little girl’s room, but Dale Lundy was an only child.

  Onward, farther down the hall.

  A boy’s room. This one had Darth Vader sheets and posters from the seventies. A hooked rug on polished floorboards. Cowboy-and-Indian wallpaper, cornflower blue.

  Dark in here. On an impulse, Laura walked to the window. Carefully, she moved aside the cowboy-and-Indian-patterned drapes with her latexed hands. She was right. Black-out curtains.

  He’d used plywood to cover up the windows, but he’d added black-out curtains as well. Why? It was as if this house had to remain a secret. As if it embarrassed him in some way. Maybe the kids at school had called him a mama’s boy.