by Kylie Brant
Clarice would have remembered. He closed the tabs on one box and went for another. She’d know every name, recall a face for each, and be able to recite all of their sad stories. She’d had a soft spot for each and every one of the kids. And their stories had all been sad.
Heaving a sigh, he opened a new box and carefully went through the paperwork inside. He still recalled the ones that had been with them the longest. And others flashed through his memory as soon as he saw their name on a file folder. Like the name on the form in his hand.
Sonny Baxter.
Helluva a name to hang on a kid, Alfred had always thought, but it was the only one he’d had. And he was one Alfred remembered. One he’d never forget.
They’d had the teen for three months before the social worker had ever told him the reason for the therapist and heavy-duty medication. And the story of the kid’s past hadn’t been a pretty one. Knowing what the kid had been through, Alfred had even taken him shooting several times. The boy might have had no defense against what had been done to him in the past, but he’d damn well learn to defend himself for the future.
He’d been a quiet kid. Too quiet. Never any trouble and kept to himself. At least as much as he could with three other boys crammed into the house with him. An odd duck maybe, and who could blame him? Unlike some of the others, Sonny had never given them a moment’s worry.
A dim memory rang, but Alfred couldn’t lay his finger on the source. He dug further in the box, for the file that Clarice had kept on each child. A list of their accomplishments. Another for her concerns about their behavior.
There it was then, in his hand, the thing that had been niggling at the back of his mind. Listed in Clarice’s neat printing she’d noted the part-time job Sonny had gotten when he’d turned sixteen.
Cleaning up at Foster’s Funeral Services.
Alfred dropped the sheet as if it had burned his fingers. Coincidence. It had to be, didn’t it? Many of the teenagers that had been with them had gotten jobs at one time or another. For most it was the first time in their lives they’d had their own money to spend. At the time, he’d applauded their initiative.
Troubled, he replaced the sheet in the file and set it aside. But the information lodged in his head, burrowed in.
Should he call the agent with Sonny’s name? Sic the law on him for who knows what the agent was investigating? The kid had lived enough misery for six lifetimes. Alfred had always felt sorry for Sonny Baxter, despite what he’d done to his mother when he was nine. The bitch, Alfred had once confided to his wife, had had it coming.
Of course, he wasn’t a kid now. He’d be…Alfred squinted. Twenty-eight or so. He’d run off when he was seventeen and he and Clarice hadn’t heard a word about him since. He had no idea whether social services had ever caught up with him. Alfred wondered now if the kid had made something of himself.
Of if he’d done whatever it was that the agent had come here about.
Torn, Alfred struggled with his thoughts as he completed his task. Clarice would never forgive him if he brought more misery into that boy’s life. On the other hand, they’d been a law-abiding couple. It would never have occurred to her to refuse to cooperate with the DCI.
In the end, he decided on a course of action. He’d include Sonny’s name on the sheet of names and email it, as promised to Agent Prescott. But he wouldn’t alert the agent to look at Sonny in particular.
It might be the last break he could offer that lost introverted teen that’d been through so much, while still complying with the law. As compromises went, it was one Alfred decided he could live with.
* * * *
Kevin Stallsmith ushered them inside his split foyer home, and seemed to barely listen to the introductions before demanding, “You have news? About Emily?”
“I’m sorry. We’re here to ask you some questions about her disappearance.”
Cam’s answer seemed to deflate the man. “I thought…when your office called, I hoped there might be something new. I got permission to go in to work later…” He rubbed a hand over his short sandy-colored hair, a dejected slump to his broad shoulders. “I talked to that detective a lot at the time. Timmons. He could give you all the information you need.”
It didn’t escape Cam’s notice that Stallsmith didn’t offer them a seat. “We have a copy of Detective Timmons’ file. But I had a few more questions. Maybe we could sit down for a few minutes.”
Stallsmith remained standing. “I should really get in to work.”
“This won’t take long.”
With a show of reluctance the taller man turned and walked up four stairs to a living area. He waved them half-heartedly to chairs but remained standing, arms folded.
His body language was more telling than a shout. Ignoring it for the moment, Cam said, “The ballistics on a weapon used in a case I’m investigating match the bullet found lodged in your wall when you reported your wife missing a few years ago.”
Stallsmith looked at Cam and Sophie blankly for an instant. Then he threw back his head and gave a harsh laugh. “You guys are un-fucking-believable, you know that?” Cam looked at him. Said nothing.
“The cops at the time were all over me. At first Timmons acted like I’d offed Emily and hid the body, for god’s sake. Then got rid of the gun, because hey, they couldn’t find it anywhere. Now you waltz in and say, ‘Wait, we think you kept the gun and four years later used it to commit another crime.”
He walked toward the steps. Jerked a thumb. “Get the hell out of my house. I’m not answering any other questions without an attorney present.”
“That’s your right.” Invoking it, however, had Cam’s instincts quivering.
“You said ‘at first.’”
Stallsmith’s attention jerked toward Sophie, his brow wrinkling.
“You said at first Detective Timmons thought maybe you had something to do with your wife’s disappearance,” she elucidated. “What changed his mind?”
The man snorted. “Maybe the fact that there was a bullet hole I couldn’t explain in the garage ceiling, but no blood. More likely because a couple dozen people swore that I’d put in sixteen hours straight at work that day.” His throat worked and he looked away. “If I’d been home on time…”
Feeling Sophie’s gaze on him, Cam said, “Mr. Stallsmith received a message from his wife postmarked the day she was last seen. A Dear John letter.”
“Which she didn’t write,” Kevin said heatedly. “I told Timmons there was no way Em had left on her own, but he verified that it was her handwriting, so he just figured the letter meant she had reasons to split.”
“Did she have reasons?”
Cam’s quiet question had the other man flushing. “We had our ups and downs just like any other married couple. But things had been going pretty smooth. We were talking about starting a family. She wouldn’t have left then. I still don’t believe she did. Not willingly.”
“She took clothes. A suitcase,” Cam said for Sophie’s benefit. He saw the way she was looking at the guy, sympathy in her expression. Most likely the guy deserved some slack. But there was still the unexplained bullet hole in the garage that bothered him.
Reaching into his suit coat he withdrew a copy of the sketch of the offender. Gave it a shake to unfold it and rose to hand it to Stallsmith. “You ever remember seeing this man around before your wife disappeared? Or since?”
When recognition flickered in the man’s expression Cam felt a flare of excitement. It was extinguished in the next moment when he said, “This has been all over the news. It says anyone who has seen him should call in.” His gaze went from Cam to Sophie and back again. “He’s the case you’re investigating?”
“Take a good look,” Sophie advised. “People change over the years. This sketch was done a few weeks ago.”
Stallsmith studied it for several moments longer before shaking his head. “Doesn’t look familiar.” He handed it back to Cam. “Timmons thinks Emily left on her own. I’ve never beli
eved it. Do you think…” He hesitated for a moment, before barreling on. “Did this guy have anything to do with her leaving?”
There was nothing else here for them. Of that, Cam was certain. He rose. “All we know is the ballistics dug out of your garage ceiling match the weapon used recently in a murder attempt. But the weapon was stolen years ago. And illegal guns change hands.”
“You say you got a letter from your wife.” Sophie hadn’t followed his lead. She was still seated. When Stallsmith looked at her she went on. “Did she take anything else when she left? Was money missing out of your bank account?”
“We didn’t have a lot of savings. But the credit cards were maxed out, the same day she disappeared. A few clothes, but mostly stuff Timmons said could be turned into cash. Said she might have used it to fund her disappearance.”
Finally, Sophie got to her feet. “And her family has never heard from her again? Her friends?”
“Not that they’ve told me.” His mouth flattened. “I don’t give a shit what Timmons thinks. People don’t just disappear without a trace. Em was real close to her sisters. Whatever the detective thinks about Em and me, she wouldn’t have run off and never contacted her sisters again.”
“Would her sisters have told you if she’d been in contact?”
The man’s hesitation was its own answer. “Maybe we weren’t on the best of terms. More than once she’d go to one or the other of their houses after we had a fight.”
“And when you’d call…they’d tell you what?”
Sophie’s question seemed to make the man angry. “They’d tell me she didn’t want to talk to me sometimes. Other times they’d say she wasn’t there, even after I’d driven by and seen her car.”
As if the ramifications of that admission hit him as he uttered it, he looked away. For a moment Cam actually felt sorry for the guy.
“Do you have a photo of Emily, Mr. Stallsmith?” Sophie sounded apologetic. I realize there’s probably one in Detective Timmons’ file, but I haven’t seen that. It would save time if you had one I could look at.”
Clearly anxious to have them gone, the man shook his head. “I got rid of them after Timmons seemed so sure she’d just left. And that letter…” His shrug told the story. “I mean if she didn’t want me I didn’t want any reminders of her, you know?”
“But there was a chance she didn’t leave you,” Sophie reminded him softly. “There were times you believed she couldn’t have. And for those times, I’d think you’d keep a photo around. To remind you of the possibility.”
The man looked away. Then after a moment he turned with a jerk and went through the tiny dining room down a hallway. Returned a moment later with a five by ten still in its frame.
It was a photo of both of them taken in one of the happier times in their stormy relationship. Their arms were hooked around each other’s waists, and Emily’s face was tipped up to her husband’s.
A fist clenched all the muscles in Cam’s stomach into one large hard knot. Emily Stallsmith was definitely not the woman that had been found two nights ago on the banks of the Raccoon River. But he’d seen her before.
He glanced at Sophie as her gaze sought his, immediately saw the recognition on his face.
The woman in the picture had just been excavated from the mass grave they’d found. With no identifying marks except for the number seven burned into her back.
Chapter 10
“You’re quiet.” Cam turned off the exit ramp onto Interstate 80. “I’ve got copies of the case file from Timmons back at the office. It was solid enough police work.”
Kevin Stallsmith’s anguished expression as he’d made the identification of his dead wife in the morgue a half hour earlier was still vivid enough in her memory to lend her voice bite. “Solid? How can you say that when Emily Stallsmith was never reported as a missing person?”
“You can’t blame the detective. The scene was obviously staged so people would think she’d left on her own accord.” Cam shot a glare at a driver in a bright red Camry in the lane next to his who was more concerned with her cell phone than she was in keeping her car from drifting over the line.
“Neighbors said the couple used to fight. A suitcase was packed. Her car was never found. A woman without the cash to take off and start over could use credit cards to buy easily disposed of items that can be turned into cash.” He slowed when the car drifted his way again and gave a honk of his horn. The driver started, shot him a filthy look and straightened the car, speeding away. If he had had the time and inclination, he’d have her pulled over and arrested for driving while stupid.
“You said it yourself,” Sophie said with some heat. “The scene was staged. Timmons should have seen that possibility. Especially with a bullet found in the ceiling of the garage.”
“Which Stallsmith couldn’t swear hadn’t been there when he bought the place. Bad luck, Soph. Not bad police work. In Timmons’ place I might have done the same thing.”
“No.” Her denial was certain. “You’re much too suspicious not to have seen the possibilities.”
He considered that for a moment. “Not sure that was meant as a compliment, but I’ll take it.”
She fell silent and he was left to wonder in what direction her amazing mind had veered now. Regardless of the wig and dark makeup that could still throw him for a loop when he looked at her sometimes, she was the same Sophie. And he could hear the wheels turning.
“So Klaussen was Vance’s first. Stallsmith was the seventh, although it’s uncertain whether Vance, his accomplice or both played a part in her murder. They could have still been evolving. What was the total of the credit card purchases after her disappearance?”
Cam searched his memory. “Six thousand or so. Another five hundred from their bank account. Not a fortune for sure, especially considering that fencing the goods or selling them on Craigslist or eBay would have resulted in less than the ticket price.”
“Then there’s the car. Which could have been sold to a chop shop for a thousand more. Not a bad haul. Nothing like what Vance was getting from the six victims found in the cemeteries,” Sophie mused. She had her head turned toward the window, but he’d bet money she wasn’t noticing the scenery. “Vance hatched that idea in prison, according to his cellmate. So it’s hard to believe he spent the first few years that he was out selecting victims who yielded him so little cash.”
“Okay, so we’re back to your other idea. That the two were in a competition.”
“Sixteen victims in four years is a heck of a competition,” she said grimly. “And for the life of me I can’t figure out their numbering system.” Her voice turned musing. “Given the victim numbering, Vance would have had to come to Iowa almost immediately upon his release from prison in Nebraska and gotten started. We need to figure out when and how he hooked up with the UNSUB.” She turned to face him again. And he didn’t trust the speculative gleam in her eye. “How long will you be at the river scene?”
The reminder sobered him. “No telling.” His last phone call had arrived while he was at the morgue with Stallsmith. The dig team had found a fourth body and was working to excavate it. The dive crew, according to Franks, still had found nothing. “Probably all day, or until the divers call it quits.”
“Maybe I could take your car after dropping you there.” The suggestion had his head whipping around to face her. “I really need to talk to Rhonda Klaussen.”
“Are you kidding me? There’s not a chance in hell of you going anywhere without protection.”
She gave an incredulous laugh. “Even looking like this? My own mother wouldn’t know me. As a matter of fact, if anyone I knew did recognize me in this mess I’d be sorely offended.”
“So be offended.” His gaze returned to the road. “It’s a wig and makeup, not a cloak of invisibility.”
“And colored contacts,” she reminded him. “As of this morning.”
“Fine. Great. You turned your blue eyes brown. I think there’s a country song ti
tle in there somewhere.”
Now she was amused. “I believe that song is the other way around. ‘Don’t You Make My Brown Eyes Blue.”
Impatience filtered through him. And this time he couldn’t blame the red Camry. “Whatever. You still aren’t going anywhere alone.”
She settled in her seat with an air of satisfaction. And there was a note in her voice that he didn’t quite trust. “That works for me.”
* * * *
Sophia stared at the 1940s style white clapboard house tucked neatly between a newer ranch and a rambling Queen Anne. “When you said Sheldahl, Iowa I honestly don’t think I could have found it on a map.”
“Lucky then that you didn’t have to.” From the clip in his tone, the force with which Cam put the car in park, Sophia could tell he was still smarting at the detour. And the reason for it.
“Don’t be a sore loser,” she said, trying to keep the amusement from her voice. “We drew cards to decide where to go first. A king beats a two every time. Had it been the other way around…”
“Had it been the other way around,” he opened the car door, aiming a meaningful look over his shoulder, “we’d be playing for something far different and you’d be naked.”
“At least then you’d be happier,” she muttered as she unfastened her seatbelt.
“Got that right.”
Shock mingled with amusement. She clearly recalled the incident he was alluding to. There had been a time while they were together that they’d played cards for clothing. Strip gin. As she recalled, she’d won then, too.
