by Donna Ball
Case gestured him to be seated. “The girl's name was Mickie Anderson, from Wilmington, West Virginia. Her folks are on their way, but I'd rather not have them trampled by reporters until we get a chance to talk to them.”
Guy nodded, making note of the name and knowing without being told to keep it to himself. The paper would release a special edition at four-thirty. That was all the lead time he got.
Case went on wearily, “One of her girlfriends reported her missing night before last. They had driven up for the day from Panama City. Apparently she was bragging all day about some guy she'd met who was going to make her a star or some shit.”
Something tickled in the back of Guy's mind, but he couldn't quite catch it.
The sheriff went on tiredly, “Then she had a fight with her boyfriend and as far as I can tell, she went off to meet this guy and that was the last anyone saw of her. When she wasn't at the meeting place when they all got ready to go home this kid had the sense—God only knows how—to call our office. We didn't think much of it, just jotted down her name and school and where the caller could be reached. Like this was the only kid that didn't show up to catch her ride home? But anyway, we got a positive i.d. a few minutes ago. Mickie Anderson, eighteen years old.”
The last words were uttered heavily, with an effort. His gaze was fixed on his desk blotter, where there was nothing to hold his attention but his own thoughts. He added quietly, “Do you know how long it's been since I had to deal with anything like this? Hell, that's why I live here.”
Guy said carefully, “We have drowning and boat accidents every year.”
Case looked up at him sharply. “This was no fucking boat accident. That kid was murdered. She was tied up, raped, tortured, then strangled to death. Her nipples had been sliced off. Finger tips. There were cuts all over her body. Of course, the fish...” He had to stop and clear his throat. “Well, it was hard to tell a lot by looking at her. We're bringing in a state forensic pathologist for more grisly details, but that's enough to make sure I don't sleep at night for a while. We've got a convicted rapist walking around loose looking for trouble and we've got a dead teenager who was tortured and raped before somebody tossed her in the water. And we've got a definite match between Saddler's on-file prints and the ones on the poker that brained you last night. What we don't have is Saddler.”
Guy said softly, “Shit.”
“You're telling me.”
The two men looked at each other silently for a time. Then Case said, “There is another possibility. Seems like this Mickie was a real wild card. Picked up this guy in Panama City, rode down here with him, ended up balling him on the beach, having a big fight, stalking off. That was the last anybody saw of her. Long brought him in with the girlfriend to identify the body. He's questioning him now.”
The tone of his voice suggested he did not anticipate helpful results.
Guy said tersely, “A man like Saddler can't hide out forever. The county's not that damn big.”
Case returned, “You want my goddamn job? You're welcome to it.” Then, rubbing his forehead, he added, “We're getting help from the state police. Something's got to break soon.”
Guy said, “ 'Spring Break Turns Tragic.' We'll play down the rape angle until you have more details.” He hesitated. “What was she wearing when she was found?”
Case consulted a file on his desk. “She was reported missing wearing denim shorts and a red bandanna top. She was found nude.”
Guy looked somber. “That makes it a little harder to gloss over sexual assault.”
“Right.” He was silent for a moment. “How's your head?”
“It's been better.” Guy stood to go. “I'm going to try to talk to the kids who made the i.d.” He hesitated. “How bad was the body?”
“The face wasn't so bad. The legs and torso were pretty chewed up. The witnesses aren't in great shape. I told Long to keep them away from reporters until they calm down.”
“Good call,” Guy said absently, starting for the door.
“Guy, listen.” Case looked and sounded old for the first time since Guy had known him. “We're doing the best we can but—better keep an eye on Carol until we get this creep behind bars, okay? And watch your own ass, too.”
Guy's phone rang as he was leaving the office. He answered it absently.
“You stubborn, selfish son of a bitch,” Carol said. “I always did say it would take more than a big stick to knock some sense into you and now I see I was right. I thought you were going to wait for me to take you home.”
Guy walked a few steps down the corridor for privacy. “Thanks for caring, sweetheart.”
“The police left the house a mess,” she said tensely. “No one will tell me anything. It looks like they emptied an ashcan all over the bedroom and they took—they took my lingerie. Did you tell them they could do that? Who's going to clean this place up? Why won't anybody tell me anything?”
Guy said, “Carol, I don't want you staying there alone.”
“I live here, damn it! This is where I live!” He heard her sharp intake of breath. “I called a locksmith. He's replacing the locks today and putting security bolts on the windows. And I'm calling Elsie to give the place a good cleaning, top to bottom, so I hope the police are finished with their investigation. You might tell your good friend John Case I appreciate all his help if you see him.”
Guy smiled a little. That sounded more like Carol. In control, on top of the situation, blindly—sometimes stupidly—sweeping away obstacles. He said, “Do I get a key?”
“What?”
“To the new locks. I should have a key.”
“You're the main reason I'm having the locks replaced,” she retorted. “I should have done it years ago.”
Guy's smile faded and he lowered his voice a little as he said, “Listen, Carol, in all the excitement last night—I didn't get a chance to tell you how sorry I am.”
Her silence was startled. “Sorry for what?”
“This.” With his head ducked over the telephone he made a short and helpless gesture with his wrist that included the corridor, the jail, the world at large, just as though she could see him. “Everything. The trouble. You're in the middle of it because of me and I'm sorry.”
The silence went on a beat or two. Her voice sounded thick and a little watery when she answered, “Only you would apologize for being knocked unconscious by a criminal who's looting my house. Get some backbone, will you?”
He heard her sniff, or thought he did, and he wished she could see the reassuring smile that came automatically to his lips. If he had been with her, he would have squeezed her hand, or touched her hair, or pulled her head onto his shoulder. They had been married too long not to want to comfort each other in times of pain—even when they themselves were the cause of that pain.
She said, in a little stronger tone, “And go home and go to bed like you were told to do. I don't want to have to worry about you collapsing with an aneurysm or hematoma on top of everything else.”
A surprised laugh escaped him. “Where did you get ideas like that?”
“From the literature they gave me in the emergency room last night,” she returned sharply. “Go home, Guy. And don't try telling me you are at home, because Rachel already told me you're covering a story. Believe me, it's not that important.”
Obviously, she hadn't turned on the radio that morning. Guy decided she had enough on her mind without the news of the murdered teenager—and Saddler's involvement, too.
Guy said, “You're probably right. But I figured if I didn't show up for work today, the paper would be reporting me dead by this afternoon.”
“Idiot,” she said, but indulgently.
Guy thought, I love you, Carol. I really do. But it was not a new realization, and certainly did not require verbalization. He had had the same thought twice a week, twice a month, sometimes twice a day, almost from the moment he'd met her. He supposed he always would.
He said, “Listen, honey..
.” He was about to do something stupid and embarrassing, like asking her to lunch or admonishing her, once again, to be careful. But he was saved from himself by the passage of a deputy, who opened a door a few feet down the hall and gave Guy an intriguing glimpse of the two people inside. He finished, “I've got to go. Let me call you this afternoon, okay?”
Her voice had an edge. “Don't put yourself out.”
The deputy came back out of the room, and Guy saw that one of the occupants was definitely Deputy Long. The other was a young, blond man who seemed very upset. Guy disconnected almost absently and moved down the hall.
~
Chapter Twenty-seven
Carol replaced the receiver with a vengeance when she found herself listening to a dead line. “Damn him,” she muttered, and then was embarrassed to look up and see Laura leaning against the doorframe.
“Come on, honey, you knew he was a snake when you picked him up.”
That had never failed to make Carol smile. After Laura's first divorce, Carol had tried to cheer her up with the story of the woman who had found a snake frozen by the roadside. She had taken it home, warmed it by the fire, fed it, and nursed it back to health, then had been shocked and outraged when the reptile rewarded her with a poisonous bite. The moral of the story, whether having to do with the stupidity of women's nurturing instincts or the treachery of snakes of the male persuasion—or perhaps neither—was by that time lost at the bottom of a pina colada haze which dissolved into meaningless and uncontrollable giggles with the punch line, “You knew I was a snake when you picked me up.” Since then the epithet, used back and forth as an admonition or an indictment or a mere statement of fact regarding men in general, had been an inside joke. But today Carol couldn't even manage a smile.
“I guess I did,” she said with a sigh. “I just didn't expect to be reminded of it quite so often.”
“You know what they say: We can't help who we fall in love with.”
Carol looked at her friend questioningly, but Laura's expression was bland. “No. I didn't know they said that.”
“I assume he's okay, and has no news on the apprehension of the suspect?”
“You assume correctly.”
“Then I guess it's back to business. Ken Carlton called. He's at home.”
Carol groaned. “Did he sound mad?”
“He sounded gorgeous.”
“He's a client, Laura.”
Laura lifted an eyebrow. “Why, my goodness. So he is.” Then she said, “You want some advice? Push redial on that phone and ask your husband out to dinner. Let me take care of Carlton. You take care of what’s important.”
Carol looked at the telephone, her expression wan. “I guess I never have been very good at that, have I?”
“No,” Laura said frankly, “you haven't.” Then her expression softened. “I'm out of the office for a couple of hours. I've got to do an inspection on a couple of rentals and I thought I'd stop by the shops we missed the other day with Kelly's photo.” She hesitated. “If it’s all right, that is. I mean, if you think we should still...”
She trailed off, hesitance and question in her eyes and Carol smiled. “Did I ever tell you you're the best friend I've ever had?”
Laura shrugged lightly. “I thought it was assumed. Hold down the fort.” At the door, she turned back. “On the subject of best friends, you know mi casa es su casa for as long as you need it, right?”
“I know. But I don't need it. I'm not going to let a cowardly pervert drive me out of my casa thank you very much. At least not yet.”
Laura said in an exaggerated accent that resembled nothing familiar to Carol, “You've got spunk, kid. No wonder he's crazy about you.”
“Who's crazy about me?”
But Laura just winked at her, and left.
When she was gone, Carol spent several long moments staring at her phone. But when she picked up the receiver, she did not push redial. Instead she scrolled down her contacts until she came to the number for Sea Dunes, and she dialed Ken Carlton's number.
***
When Guy opened the door, the kid was saying in an anguished voice, “I don't know what you want from me! I barely knew the girl!”
And Deputy Long replied smoothly, “Do you make it a habit to have sex on the beach with girls you barely know? Not very smart, you know, especially these days.”
“Who told you that? We weren't having sex! It was broad damn daylight for God's sake!”
Then the kid noticed Guy and looked at him with a mixture of wretchedness and hope in his eyes. Long frowned at him.
Guy said, “Sorry, Deputy. They told me you were in here.”
The boy said, “Are you a lawyer? Because he told me I didn't need a lawyer. But I don't see how they can keep me here—”
Long said patiently, “I told you Donny, we just want to ask you a few questions.” To Guy he said, “If you'd just wait outside, Mr. Dennison...”
Guy told Donny, “No, I'm not a lawyer, but if you want one here while you talk to the deputy, I'll be glad to call somebody for you.” He offered his hand. “My name is Guy Dennison. I'm with the local paper.”
The kid looked confused. He wiped his palms on the hem of his shorts before accepting Guy's handshake. Long looked furious.
“I'm Donny, uh, Don Bradshaw,” the boy said. “And like I was trying to explain I just met this girl Monday on the way down here. We had a few laughs, so what’s the big deal? I mean she was a cute chick but really messed up in the head, you know what I mean? Hanging all over me one minute and biting my head off the next. And then all that crap about being in a commercial, about some famous director having the hots for her. You want to know who did her, you find him, that's what I say.”
It clicked again, in the back of Guy's mind. Director. Movies. I'm going to Hollywood.
“Anyway, I've told everybody this, I've told them a dozen times. It's not that I didn't like her, but she was freaky, man. And when she got mad and walked off down the beach, I said to myself good riddance. Hell, I figured she had a way back, wouldn't you figure that? What was I, her keeper? I barely knew her!”
Guy said, “Have you called your folks, Donny?”
He caught a leather thong that he wore round his neck and started twisting it nervously. “Man, they're gonna kill me. Do I have to call them, man? Am I in some kind of trouble?”
Guy said, “I guess you'd have to ask the deputy here.”
“Now that would be a nice change.” Long's tone was mild but his jaw was tight. He glared at Guy.
Donny twisted the thong another turn. A red mark appeared near his collarbone but he didn't seem to notice. He said anxiously, “I just want to go home. Jesus, all I wanted was to come down here and hang out, have a little fun. If I got a lawyer, would it be one of those you have to pay? Couldn't you call somebody who takes, what do you call it, free cases? Because if my parents find out—”
Guy said, “Do you want a lawyer, Donny?”
Donny released his death grip on the leather necklace. He looked scared and defeated. “Yeah. I think I do.”
Long bit back a curse and thrust his hands deep into his pockets, walking away. He said tightly, “Could I talk to you in the hall, Mr. Dennison?”
But Guy's attention was caught by the pendant that was suspended from the end of the leather thong around Donny's neck. He had seen it before, or something very much like it, but his head ached too fiercely for him to be certain where or when or if it even mattered. He said, “That's an unusual necklace. Where'd you get it?”
Donny looked down at the necklace as though he had never seen it before. Then his face cleared with memory and relief and he said, “She gave it to me. Doesn't that prove it? She wasn't mad at me, she liked me! She gave me this, didn't she?” He held up the little figurine pendant like a trophy.
Long closed his hand over Guy's arm authoritatively. Guy went with him to the door where Long said in a low angry tone, “Are you aware that you just blew my interrogation? Wha
t the hell's the matter with you?”
“The kid wants a lawyer,” Guy said tiredly. His head really hurt. “He's got a right.”
“And once he requests a lawyer, my interrogation is over until he gets one. But you knew that, didn't you?”
“That kid didn't murder the girl, you know that as well as I do,” Guy said. “Let him go home.”
“I don't have much choice now, do I?”
Long turned back to the boy and said abruptly, “Deputy Renkin will drive you and your friend back to your hotel when you're ready. Go out front and ask for her. But you remember what I said about you both being material witnesses in this case. You call this office before you leave Florida.”
The boy, whose hurry to get out of the room was pathetic, now stopped with a look of panic on his face. “Man, I can't stay here forever! I mean, my ride's leaving at the end of the week and what am I supposed to do for money? This sucks, man!”
Long said unsympathetically, “I guess you'd better call your parents then, huh?”
Donny gave the deputy one last angry, despairing look, and then moved quickly past him into the hall. Guy followed.
“Hey, Dennison, I need to talk to you!” Long called after him.
Guy ignored him.
Guy caught up with Donny as he rounded the corner. There were still more reporters than officers crowding the room, but they were too busy speculating with one another to notice the boy.
“That’s Deputy Renkin over there,” Guy said, pointing to a female deputy who was talking with a weeping young girl. He assumed the girl was the friend of the deceased and he knew he should interview her, but he wasn't sure he had the energy.
Donny shot him a grateful look. “Thanks, man. I mean, for getting me out of there, too.”
Guy shrugged. The motion sent a piercing pain through the back of his head. He said, “That necklace—when did she give it to you?”
