Darkness on the Edge of Town (Laura Cardinal Series)

by J. Carson Black

  He glanced at his watch. If he was going to surprise her, he’d better get a move-on. She got off work at two. Hurriedly, he picked out a ceramic orca and a card, one of those soft-filtered ones showing two cute little kids together. He also grabbed a roll of breathmints.

  He walked fast, worried he might miss her. As he rounded the bend he saw the yellow clapboard building housing the Midnight Sun Hotel and Restaurant. He’d just started up the steps when a woman pushed the door out, struggling with a kid in a stroller. The woman looked used-up, your basic white trash—stringy hair, tattoos on her bare arms.

  He waited for her to get through the door. She made a big show of wrangling with the stroller, but he refused to help. She gave him a dirty look and he returned her gaze serenely, not letting her know what he was thinking. What he was thinking: She looks like a hype.

  “Thanks for your help,” she said.

  He ignored her and went inside. The place was empty except for a woman he presumed worked there sitting at a table by the window. He asked her pleasantly if Misty Patin was there.

  “She just left.”

  “Could I get an address?”

  The woman parted the curtain and then looked at him. “She’s still there. Didn’t you see her when you came in?”

  He felt his heart drop, the funny feeling you get when an elevator goes way up. “I didn’t see anybody.”

  The woman looked at him as if he were crazy. She shoved back the curtain again and pointed. “She’s right out there.”

  He leaned down and peered out. He saw the hype and her kid across the street. A brand-new navy pickup pulled up. The driver looked like an Eskimo, although that wasn’t what they were called around here. He wore a tank top, shorts and flipflops. A little girl, maybe ten years old, hopped out right behind him. She was blonde and didn’t look anything like the man or the kid in the stroller. The girl ran down to the rocky beach and threw rocks into the water.

  Looking at her, he knew it was true.

  She looked just like Misty.

  He felt a wall in his gut give way, the dam he had carefully built up over the years. He could feel something dark and toxic seep out, the resentment and anger that had always been there but that he had managed to control up until now.

  The woman said, “You better hurry if you want to catch her.”

  “Shut up.”

  “No one talks to me like that. You’d better go, mister—“

  “Shut the fuck up or I’ll make you shut up, you dried-up old hag!”

  For a second, there was quiet. Then the woman catapulted to her feet, her chair screeching across the floor and ricocheting against the wall as she made a beeline for the kitchen. “I’m calling the police. Nobody talks to me like that.”

  He ignored her, pulling the curtain back and staring out the window. He watched the little girl, the delight she took in picking out stones and hurling them into the bay. She was fruit of the poisoned tree but still innocent, like an angel. The way Misty used to be.

  He let the curtain drop. Looking down, he realized he had crumpled the paper bag holding his recent purchases. Also, he’d forgotten to take a breath mint.

  It didn’t matter now.

  10

  When Laura arrived at the Bisbee Police Department the next morning, she looked for Buddy Holland, but he wasn’t at his desk. She’d planned to divide up the phone work, but that didn’t look like it would happen now.

  Chief Ducotte had scrounged up a phone and phone jack for her computer and given her the table by the window where they kept the coffee urn. Fortunately, the coffee urn had been moved so she’d have some privacy. She sat down in the folding metal chair, thinking that if she sat here very long, her back would be in agony. She scanned the list of contacts at other law enforcement agencies in the state. Might as well get started.

  In the next hour she reached close to a dozen of her counterparts in other jurisdictions, but none of them had encountered a similar crime.

  She knew this wasn’t this guy’s first kill. Dressing the victim up was the killer’s signature—something he’d do every time. It would have taken him time and practice to perfect a ritual like this one. Unfortunately, looking for one piece of information in the staggering wave of data from VICAP was a daunting task. VICAP—the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program--was only as good as the agencies entering the data. The FBI database cross-referenced violent crimes nationwide, but participation was voluntary and many smaller jurisdictions didn’t use the system.

  Somebody standing at her elbow-- Officer Noone. “Ma’am?”

  She straightened up, felt a twinge in her back. Smiled at him.

  “I heard you were looking for a saxophone player? My sister dated a guy who played the sax. I heard he lived on the Gulch, so I asked around and I found him. Name’s Jeeter.”

  “Jeeter who?”

  “Just Jeeter.”

  Through the window Laura saw Buddy Holland and Officer Duffy approaching from the parking lot. Duffy looked pissed. Laura got the impression that was a permanent condition.

  As Buddy approached the window he ducked his head to look in at her. No, not at her. He was looking at himself.

  “Jeeter doesn’t have a last name?” Laura asked Noone.

  “Apparently not, ma’am.” He looked chastened, as if Jeeter’s not having a last name was a reflection on him.

  “What’s Jeeter’s story?” she asked.

  “Guess you could say he’s a night owl. Itinerant musician, takes up the slack with odd jobs.”

  Laura glanced at Buddy Holland’s desk, at a faded but eye-catching photo of Buddy, a woman, and a little girl posing in front of Old Faithful at Yellowstone. “Did Jeeter happen to look out his window?” Laura asked Noone.

  “As a matter of fact he did. He likes to sit next to an open window when he plays. Feel the night air.”

  “Great for his neighbors. Did he see anything?”

  His broad handsome face lit up--what he had been building up to. “He saw a motorhome.” He consulted his memo pad. “He noticed it for a couple of reasons. Almost nobody drives down the Gulch in the wee hours of the morning. And, this motorhome went up and back on the Gulch twice.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Between two and three.”

  “Did he notice anything else?”

  “Just that it went slow. He wasn’t thinking make, size, anything—just noticed it driving down the street a couple of times. Here’s his number.” He handed her a While You Were Out slip, the name Jeeter, his phone number and address neatly printed on it.

  He lingered.

  “Yes?” Wishing he would go so she could think.

  “If there’s anything else I can do—“

  She glanced at her watch, thinking she should get out to see the Parris family soon or she’d have to wait until early afternoon—and that would be cutting it close. She was meeting the owner of the Cooger & Dark shop at eleven and the autopsy in Sierra Vista was at four. She looked at Noone. “As a matter of fact there is something you can do. I want you to look up motorhomes—you can do it on the Internet. Go back at least fifteen years and get a representative sample. Go show them to Jeeter and see if anything jogs his memory.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that right now.”

  “When does your shift end?”

  “Three o’clock, but—“

  “You’d better ask your sergeant if he can spare you, otherwise it will have to wait.”

  After he was gone, she thought about the motorhome. Saw it in her mind’s eye, cruising down the Gulch in the early hours of the morning.

  It made sense. A motorhome was an ideal vehicle for a sexual predator. Portable, self-contained, window shades so no one could see in.

  She glanced at Buddy Holland’s desk. He must have come in and gone again while she was talking to Noone. She powered down her computer and went looking for him, catching Officer Danehill at the coffee urn, which had been set up outside the bathroom. “H
ave you seen Buddy?”

  “Buddy? He just left.”

  Laura decided that could be a good thing. She doubted Buddy would be a help and might be a hindrance. She headed up canyon to see Jessica’s parents.

  David and Linda Parris lived on West Boulevard, the last house before vacant land. Three hundred yards up, West Boulevard bottomed out in a hairpin turn before slanting up the mountain. According to Laura’s map, this road, old Route 80, switchbacked up to the top and then down again to connect up with the main highway on the other side of Mule Pass.

  On the left side of the road just before the hairpin turn were a couple of houses. It might be worth talking to the owners of those houses, to find out if they saw anything. She’d do that after her interview with the family.

  It was going on nine in the morning. She’d debated calling first, but decided it was better to just show up. In her job, Laura always looked for the upper hand with everyone—victim or perpetrator--so she could get a better read on the personalities involved.

  The Parris house, a craftsman bungalow, had a three-foot-high base of dark volcanic rock, with red brick above that. The porch, windows and doors were painted white. A picket fence flickered in and out of the shadow of a massive sycamore tree, and an American flag hung dispiritedly from the porch roof. Blinds in the front windows were shut tight.

  The day was steamy after the rain and the sun blindingly bright. Laura was grateful for the shade of the porch. She used the deerhead knocker, preparing herself.

  No answer. A breeze shuttled a few oak leaves across the floorboards. She knocked again, scanning the street while she waited, then tried the doorbell.

  “They’re out.”

  Laura looked up and saw a bare-chested man watering his plants nextdoor. Was this the neighbor Victor had told her about?

  “You with the police department?” he asked.

  “Laura Cardinal, Department of Public Safety.” She held her wallet badge up for him to see and approached the fence.

  She studied him as he looked at her badge: Five-feet-nine, average build, tattoos on his arms, head like a bullet. Intense eyes.

  He shook her hand over the fence. A grip like a mountain climber. “Chuck Lehman.”

  “Do you know where they went?”

  “Dave mentioned making funeral arrangements yesterday, so I’m guessing they’re at the funeral home. You just missed them.”

  Laura tried not to show her disappointment. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  He picked up the hose and started watering again. “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Did you notice Jessica coming home from school day before yesterday?”

  “Nope. I was in the back room, on the computer. Stock trading.”

  “You didn’t hear anything, see anything? Maybe earlier? A car you didn’t recognize, maybe going slow? Someone hanging around?”

  She was plowing old ground; Victor had already asked him questions like this, but she wanted to hear his answers for herself.

  Chuck Lehman was willing. He gave her a thumbnail sketch of the family (father, authoritarian; mother, a pretty doormat; boyfriend, probably will end up being gay; Jessica, a “cute kid”; younger brother, a little shit). He pondered at length how her agency could use its resources to better advantage, they needed to get the media involved “on a national level”, put up roadblocks. “You don’t even have the Amber Alert.”

  “You sound like you’re in law enforcement.”

  “Me? No. I’m a carpenter.” He touched his forehead. “But I have good powers of observation.”

  She noticed the tautness in his face, the slight trembling in his body--he seemed to be on an adrenaline high. Was he excited about being included, or covering up something?

  “Did you talk to Jessica much?”

  “Me? No.” He waved at the air vaguely. “Hardly ever saw her.” Mister Amiable, suddenly closing up.

  “You know of any of her friends I could talk to?”

  “How would I know that? If you haven’t noticed, I’m a big kid.” Confident smile.

  “All the days she’s walked home from school, nobody, nothing stuck out in your mind?”

  “I don’t notice who comes and goes. They’re just kids.”

  He seemed increasingly uncomfortable. It occurred to her that he could be hiding an interest in young girls.

  Something not right about him. She remembered what Buddy Holland had said, that CRZYGRL 12 could be an e-mail address or a chat room name. She lowered her voice, her inflection friendly: You and me in his together. “You said you have a computer. Do you know anyone with the e-mail address Crazygirl 12?”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “Crazygirl 12? Maybe Jessica’s e-mail? You wouldn’t know if she had a computer, would you?”

  “Why would I know that?”

  Angry. Offense was the best defense.

  Without conscious thought, Laura shifted her weight to her back leg. Aware of the gun under her jacket. She made her voice even quieter, non-threatening. “Sir, could you tell me about your conviction?”

  His eyes turned hard. “You can call my probation officer.”

  She waited.

  “Criminal damage,” he said, his voice as hard as his eyes. “I broke into my ex wife’s house and tore up her clothes.”

  “Her underpants,” Laura said, sounding as if it was something that happened every day.

  “Right. Her underpants. Satisfied?” Anger radiated from him, making him seem bigger.

  She stepped back, hand near her hip. “Sir—“

  Suddenly he crossed the space between them, so quick she had to back up another couple of steps. His chin thrust out like a drill sergeant. “I said, are you satisfied?”

  “Yes,” she said. Keeping the calm in her voice, though she was anything but.

  He glared at her, his eyes like twin blue flames.

  “Good.” With a jerk of the head for emphasis, he walked into his house and slammed the door.

  * * *

  Laura stood there for almost a minute, shame and anger riding a river of adrenaline. She had reacted in an acceptible way--stepping back to allow space between them so that she had room to draw her weapon—but couldn’t help feeling she’d looked weak. Would Victor have retreated like that?

  Lehman got a big charge out of intimidating her--in his mind, he had won. She looked back at the Lehman house. One of the blinds moved in the front window. He was watching her. She straightened her back, trying to ignore him. She’d planned to do something. What was it?

  The houses at the hairpin. That was it. Someone there might have seen something.

  She started up the road, careful to stay to the asphalt, scanning the ground on either side. She doubted she’d find anything; the general consensus was that Jessica had been picked up coming home from school, which would mean she didn’t get this far. But Laura looked at the ground anyway, trying to concentrate. Trying not to think of Lehman staring at her back. A hundred yards up, she noted a clearing on the left side of the road, and another turnout on the corresponding side. Several cars had turned around there.

  A dog barked at her from behind the redwood fence of the first house. She knocked and got no answer, stuck her card in the door with a request that the homeowner contact her when they got home.

  The second house was set back from the road, a faded green cinderblock. The drapes were closed. A swamp box cooler rattled like a cement mixer. She thought she heard a TV set going, but no one answered her knock. Many people these days didn’t answer their doors--a safety issue. She left another card.

  On the way back to the car, Laura stopped at the turnout and examined the tire tracks. Many of them overlapped. One set of tread marks in particular caught her attention. A heavy vehicle, judging from the way the tracks sank into the ground. She could see corresponding tread marks on the other side of the road; he’d had to back and fill.

  The mud had dried, hardening into bas-relief. They’d make
excellent plaster casts.

  She squatted down and stared at them. Double wheels. From looking at both turnouts, she thought the vehicle had a big wheelbase.

  Like a motorhome.

  The sun bore down on her neck like an iron and flies buzzed around, lighting on her face and arms, tickling her. No telling if the tracks here belonged to a motorhome at all, let alone the one Jeeter had seen on the Gulch. She knew what Frank Entwistle would say. When in doubt, be thorough.

  She walked back to the 4Runner and got a spool of yellow crime scene tape and blocked off the area around both turnouts. She called the station and asked to be patched through to Officer Noone.

  “What are you doing?” she asked him when he answered.

  “Looking up motorhomes.” He added hastily, “The chief said I could.”

  Laura glanced at her watch. She had to be at Cooger & Dark’s in ten minutes. “I’ve taped off some tire tracks up at the end of West Boulevard,” she said. “I want you to come up here and keep an eye on them until I get back. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m on my way.”

  * * *

  Ted Olsen, the owner of Cooger & Dark’s Pandemonium Shadow Show and Emporium, looked nothing like his Viking name. He was a short balding man with a ZZ Top beard that had been buttoned into the neck of his short-sleeved shirt, as if he wanted to keep it out of the way.

  Cooger & Dark’s shelves were cluttered with fringed lamp shades, art deco radios, and old lunch boxes. A gas pump from the early part of the century stood in the corner. But Laura’s attention was on the dolls suspended from the ceiling. They made her think of trapeze artists caught in mid-swoop.

  They reminded her of the Cabbage Patch craze years ago, only bigger. Much bigger, their long flour-white limbs like sausages. They were dressed in gingham pinafores, dotted Swiss babydoll dresses, gunny-sack dresses. White, pink, yellow.

  “You’ve got a lot of dolls,” she said as Olsen went through the shop turning on lights.