The Laura Cardinal Novels

by J. Carson Black

  On the way to Dave Soderstrom’s house, Richie gave her the rundown on Dan’s two roommates.

  “He just moved in a month ago. They had no idea he was getting married, and from what I gathered, one of them—that’d be Steve Banks—wasn’t a happy camper. Took it personally that Dan was planning to split and didn’t bother to mention it.” He shrugged. “Either way, they’re looking for a new roommate.”

  “Did you get a look at his room?”

  “Wasn’t much there—Danny Boy hadn’t got around to unpacking. Looks to me like they threw his things—clothes and toiletries and stuff—in the boxes he already had and hauled them all down to the garage.”

  “That was quick.”

  He turned onto a road leading out of town. “Life goes on, I guess.”

  He described what he had found in the boxes. Dan’s financial statements, credit card information, checkbook, phone records, etc. Posters and things he never got around to putting up. Sports equipment, college texts, clothing, CDs.

  “Usual stuff for a college kid. I was surprised there was only one credit card, though. College kids love the plastic. I’ve got it all in the trunk of my car. So then I went to Kellee’s apartment. Her roommate—Amy—she’s a piece of work. She knew they were getting married, but was sworn to secrecy. I looked at Kellee’s room, pretty much what you’d expect. Left it the way it was, put a seal on the door.”

  “Amy’s a piece of work? What makes you say that?”

  Up ahead was a small, shabby trailer court called the Rainbow’s End. They turned onto the first lane and Richie looked at mailboxes.

  “I dunno, just a feeling I got. She acted like it didn’t affect her at all. Of course, Kellee hadn’t been there long. She and Dan worked all summer at the Mother Road. Maybe Kellee and her roommate met through a college ad. Here we are.”

  They pulled up in front of a yellow house trailer with a patch of yard. A GMC truck of similar vintage to Shana’s was parked out front on a scabby bit of lawn.

  As they emerged from the car, an ear-splitting cry cut through the night air—a baby.

  Richie sighed. “Just like home.”

  Richie and his wife had five children, one just recently out of the baby stage.

  Richie pushed the bar up on the gate and they walked up to the trailer and knocked. The baby wailed, a counterpoint to a boom box somewhere, a thumping bass. Butter-colored light fell from the curtained window on one side of the door.

  A harried-looking woman in shorts and an extra-large T-shirt with an American flag on it shoved the door open, jiggling the baby on her arm. Cute little guy. At least Laura thought it was a boy, but she could be wrong; she was going by the blue blanket. The woman was large, tired, and pale with stringy brown hair pulled up in a clip that had big, nasty-looking teeth.

  “We’re looking for Dave Soderstrom,” Richie said.

  “He’s in his room. Last door.”

  Music coming from behind the door. Or rather, the bass beat. Laura couldn’t hear a tune.

  Laura said, “Have him come to the door.”

  The woman looked at her funny, but then yelled up the hallway. “Dave, get out here!”

  The music turned down abruptly and a couple of moments later a string bean of a man with a ponytail and a goatee appeared in the doorway. He looked to be in his mid-to-late thirties.

  The smell of pot rolled off him. He wore a frayed Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops despite the chill in the house. Red nylon running shorts—circa 1980—peeked out from under the shirt.

  He smiled vaguely and said, “Hi there.”

  Richie showed him his badge and introduced himself and Laura. The woman, who had retreated into the trailer, suddenly reappeared. “Aren’t you going to take out the trash?”

  “Sure.”

  “Now?”

  “Okay.” He sounded just like a teenager. “You mind?” he asked, motioning for them to follow, tramping down the uneven carpeted floor to the cluttered kitchen area. He opened a cupboard and pulled out a kitchen bag from its box, and walked with deliberate slowness around the trailer emptying waste baskets, Richie and Laura trailing after him. He pulled out the full kitchen bag—a Top Ramen wrapper on top—and painstakingly twisted a tie around it and the other bag, then motioned them to follow him outside.

  He led them through the gate and up the lane toward a dumpster under a poplar tree at the end. The tree shimmied overhead, fat heart-shaped leaves mirroring the light on the pole above them.

  Richie asking him questions about his friend Luke Jessup.

  “Luke?” he said, hefting the second of the two bags into the dumpster. “Is this about what he saw? Those kids getting shot?”

  “That’s what he said?”

  The man leaned against the dumpster and scratched his nose, oblivious to the garbage smell. Shook his head. “Ol’ Luke. I hate to say this, but he’s usually full of shit. Nobody listens to what he says. But this was something you just can’t discount.”

  “You believed him?”

  “He did seem unusually worked up. I told him he shouldn’t cry wolf like that, but he kept talking about it, like he felt he had to convince me.”

  Richie asked, “What did he tell you?”

  He swiped at his nose. “Sometimes he drives down to the lake and camps there. He was just getting to sleep when he heard a shotgun blast.”

  “Just one?”

  He rubbed his jaw deliberatively. “More than that. He said maybe two or three. He sits up and he sees this guy walking around, shooting into a tent. Just shooting into it, you know? I mean, that’s just not cool.”

  Laura asked, “The guy walked? He didn’t run?”

  “That’s what Luke said. That’s what made it so scary. Somebody who’s that cold, man. You know?”

  “Where does Luke live?”

  “Right now, nowhere. He’s kind of a mountain man. Goes wherever his feet take him.”

  “Does he work?”

  Dave shrugged. “Odd jobs. A couple of people around here hire him by the job, but it’s kind of hit-or-miss.”

  Richie asked, “Is there anything he does regularly? Some place he goes to eat? Some place he crashes?”

  “He never misses church.”

  “Church?”

  “It isn’t much of a church. More like a ministry. The Staff of Life. It’s over on Third Street.”

  On the way back to the motel, Laura called the Staff of Life Ministry. As she’d expected at this time of night, she got their voicemail. She left a message, then glanced at Richie. Might as well try to get along with him, since they had to work together. “That was a cute baby,” she said. “Couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl, though.”

  “It was a girl. I’m surprised you couldn’t tell that.”

  “But she had a blue blanket.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “How’s yours doing?”

  “Oh, man, she’s a little pistol. Cutest little kid you ever saw. Sleeps through the night. Always has, which is a great thing for Gail.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yeah. Gail and I are having so much fun with her. I’m telling you, you don’t really grow up until you have kids.”

  Laura didn’t reply to that. She thought she was a grownup now.

  “How’s your boyfriend? Tom, right? You thinking of tying the knot?”

  “That’s not even on the radar.”

  “You should think about it. There’s nothing like being married, having kids. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I mean, sure, it’s a lot of work. But it’s worth it. These kids, they can make you so proud. Did I tell you Chris is the star of his soccer team? Kid’s gonna be a natural on the football field. Wide receiver. You can take that to the bank.”

  Laura glanced at Richie, short and built like a rubber eraser. She couldn’t picture him running down any field, let alone a football field.

  “Our anniversary is coming up,” Richie was saying. Looking at her, actually engaging. “I wan
t to go to Colorado, but Gail’s got her heart set on San Diego. She’s always wanted to stay at the hotel on Coronado Island, you know, the big old one? I’ll probably give in, as usual.”

  He talked about his family all the way back to the motel—his three girls, his two boys, Gail dragging him to an opera and how he’d actually kind of liked it. Listening to him talk made her wish for a family of her own—something she normally didn’t think about. “Family” had not been part of her lexicon for the past eleven years. She realized she had forgotten what it was like to be part of a family, to have someone who loved you no matter what. That mainstay had been gone so long that now she barely felt its absence; her life had evolved into something else. Like an old road, the memory of her own family had been almost erased by time and neglect. What would it be like to have that kind of support system again? Someone who was always there for you?

  She’d hoped Tom would be that someone, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  Richie parked in front of his room, yawned. “I’m dead. Let’s reconnoiter tomorrow morning and see where we’re at, maybe check out that church.”

  But Laura couldn’t sleep. After lying awake for what seemed like hours, she was wide-eyed. Maybe the mountain air would make her sleepy. She got up, pulled her jeans on under her nightshirt, put on her shoes and walked outside into the chill night air.

  Cigarette smoke permeated the air. She could see the tiny, red glow over by the office across the way. Someone sitting in one of the plastic chairs outside the first room, the manager’s office. A slim woman with dark hair, waving at her.

  Laura walked over. She wasn’t crazy about cigarette smoke, but the idea of company trumped the potential bad effects. Wendy said, “Pull up a chair.”

  Laura did so, careful not to tread on the sleeping chow.

  “You making any headway? On the case?” Wendy asked.

  “Not really,” Laura said truthfully.

  Wendy put out her cigarette in the sand-filled coffee can at her feet. “I knew Dan a little. From what I could tell, he was a really nice guy. This is just incredibly sad.”

  Laura silently agreed.

  Wendy caught her long brown hair, brought it over one shoulder, and stroked it absently. “Poor Shana. Who’s going to look out for her now?”

  “You know Shana?”

  “We were on the quadrille team together in high school.”

  “She sold her horse today.”

  Wendy stared at her. “Mighty Mouse? Are you kidding me? She loved that horse.”

  “She sold the horse and horse trailer to Barbara Wingate.”

  “Wow. That’s unbelievable.” Wendy stared straight ahead, working it out in her mind. “She must have been really upset. People do weird things when they get upset. Stuff they wouldn’t normally do.”

  “I suppose she has other things on her mind,” Laura said. “Dan’s death. Her children. Her boyfriend.”

  “She still running around with that creep?”

  “You mean Bobby Burdette?”

  “That’s the one.” Wendy shook another cigarette from the pack sitting on her lap, stuck it between her lips. “Although sometimes it’s hard to keep track. Shana always did run through men like babies through diapers.”

  Laura closed her eyes, enjoying the cool air on her cheek. She heard the flare of a match and smelled the smoke. Turned her head so she didn’t breathe it directly in, even though it probably didn’t make any difference.

  Wendy said, “Barbara Wingate must have bought Mighty Mouse for Erin. I hope it perks her up. Maybe it will get her mind off everything she’s been going through.”

  Wendy moved her hair to the other shoulder, and Laura noticed the gold-colored name tag pinned to her tunic catching the light. The name tag said WILLIAMS HEALTH CARE CENTER above the name WENDY BAKER.

  “Are you a nurse?” Laura asked.

  “No, I do intake. Part-time.”

  “Is Erin very sick?”

  “If she isn’t, she sure gives a good imitation of it. Nobody knows what’s wrong, though; there are so many different symptoms. All she’s been through, and Mrs. Wingate’s just beside herself.”

  Chelsea the chow stretched, groaned, and went back to sleep.

  Wendy added, “I can tell it’s beginning to wear her down. She’s a real fighter. So persistent, always asking questions, being real proactive, you know? That’s important. When it comes to patient care, a lot of people don’t realize they’ve got to ride herd on the health care providers. I could tell you stories…” She shook her head. “At least Barbara Wingate knows what’s going on, how important it is to watch out for Erin. She should, considering.”

  Laura was about to ask Wendy what she meant, but the moment passed when Wendy motioned to Richie’s car. “My cousin has a Monte Carlo just like that. Same color, only he’s got the ‘8’ on one side and the ‘3’ on the other.”

  “What do those numbers mean?” Laura asked.

  “Number Eight is the car Dale Earnhardt Junior drives.”

  Laura had heard the name. “Is he the guy who died in that car race a few years back?”

  “No. That was Junior’s dad, Dale Earnhardt. The Intimidator. His car was Number Three.” She put out the second cigarette, only half-smoked. “I hope switching out the sets worked out for your partner. He is your partner, isn’t he?”

  “Sets?”

  “For when he was watching the NASCAR race—the reception was driving him crazy. We traded him a set from the room on the other side. He didn’t come back around so I’m assuming it was okay.”

  Laura’s gut tightened. “He was watching a car race yesterday?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How long do NASCAR races usually go?”

  “Usually? Barring crashes, four hours.”

  Laura and Richie went by the Staff of Life Ministry the next morning. Laura was still steaming over the idea that Richie had spent a large part of yesterday watching a NASCAR race. No point in saying anything, though. Working closely with him had illuminated his character in a way she hadn’t noticed previously. He could be passive-aggressive, especially when cornered. He’d love it if she got bent out of shape over the car race—it would give him a chance to trot out his favorite defense mechanism. As much as she’d like to confront him, it would not move the investigation forward, and with homicides, momentum was everything.

  The church was headquartered in a brick bungalow with colorful posters of Jesus and his disciples taped to the walls. A plump, pleasant-looking woman at the desk told them that she hadn’t seen Luke Jessup for a couple of days.

  Her brows knitted with worry. “It’s pretty strange. He missed teaching his Bible class yesterday. That’s not like him.”

  “You mean, he’s pretty punctual?” asked Richie.

  “I mean,” she said, staring at Richie hard over her reading glasses, “He has never missed a worship service or a Bible class in the five years I’ve known him.”

  As they left, she added, “If you find him, let me know, will you? I hope he’s all right.”

  The back-to-back autopsies at the Coconino County Medical Examiner’s office in Flagstaff were both deeply disturbing and routine. The post on Kellee Yates confirmed the resurgence of her brain tumor. Maybe the news would be a comfort to her parents. Hard to know.

  After the autopsies, Laura and Richie split up; Richie went back to Williams to look for Luke Jessup, and Laura remained at the ME’s office to meet Chuck and Louise Yates.

  Laura saw their truck pull in off Fort Valley Road and met them out front. Chuck came around to open Louise’s door, but she was ahead of him and nearly mowed him down. Laura got the impression the door-opening was something new, a deference to his wife’s grief.

  Louise Yates bulled her way to the walkway out front before stopping dead. She stared at the beige building set back into a stand of ponderosa pines, looking at it as if it were the first circle of hell. Andrew Whitcomb, the forensic investigator for Coconino County, joined L
aura, introduced himself, and led them all around the walkway to the back.

  They entered through the back door into a sparsely furnished room, fifteen by fifteen feet—red-tile floor and bare white walls. Laura noticed the refrigerated cases where corpses were kept, and hoped Chuck and Louise Yates wouldn’t.

  Louise immediately saw the sheet-covered gurney parked along one wall. She gasped.

  A chair had been placed next to the gurney. The chair was coral red and made of nubby material. Laura noticed that Louise Yates held Andrew Whitcomb’s hand, as if she had known him all her life. He had clearly done this many times before and inspired confidence with his gentle, respectful demeanor.

  Mark let go of Louise’s hand long enough to push the sheet up away from the young man’s arm, which lay just inside the rim of the tray on which he had been stored.

  Louise groaned.

  Behind Laura, Chuck Yates muttered, “Dear God.”

  Andrew Whitcomb returned to Louise’s side, said something Laura could not hear, something for Louise’s ears alone. Louise nodded. They crossed the few feet of distance to Dan Yates.

  “Do you want to sit down?”

  Louise shook her head. She was staring down at her son’s hand, which was palm-up and slightly curled. The sheet had been pushed halfway up his forearm, mercifully covering up several pellet wounds Laura had seen during the autopsy photos.

  “Why don’t you stay with him awhile?” Mark said.

  She turned to him, panic in her eyes. “But what if it isn’t Dan?”

  Chuck spoke up. “You know what they said. They matched his fingerprints. His fingerprints from that time he worked at—”

  Louise hunched her shoulders and Chuck stopped talking.

  Time stretched. Louise kept staring at Dan’s arm. The room went completely quiet. Louise’s expression was flat, unreadable, but her fingers seemed to move of their own volition, almost as if she were playing piano in the air by her hips. Laura wondered what she would do. Wondered if she’d bolt.

  “I don’t want to touch him if he’s not my son,” Louise Yates said into the silence.