by Donna Ball
Saddler said, “How the hell am I supposed to do that man? I'm telling you I don't—”
“Who'd you get to make those phone calls to Carol Dennison, Saddler? Was it Kelly? Is she still alive? Who've you got working with you?”
“What phone calls? Man, I don't have to listen to this bullshit!” He turned to his lawyer. “Are you going to let him harass me like this? I done told him—”
“Because that's your trump card, Saddler, that's your chance to come out of this with a nice cozy prison cell instead of a one-way ticket to Death Row, if that girl is still alive. But you'd better tell me quick because this is a limited time offer and it expires”—Case looked at his watch—”in just about an hour.”
Saddler pushed up angrily from the table. “This is bullshit.”
And Soffit said, glancing at his own watch, “Are we about done here?”
At a tap on the door, Case turned with a frown of irritation. A deputy came in with a folded slip of paper, which he handed to Case, and a murmured, two-part message. The first part was good news: They had tracked down the shop in town that sold the bound-girl necklaces, and the name of the shop owner and the address were on the paper Case had been handed. The second part was not so good: The D.A. himself was waiting in Case's office for a full briefing. His time was almost up.
When the deputy was gone, Case said coldly, “Sit down, Saddler.”
Saddler glared at him.
“You know that deadline I mentioned?” Case said. “It just got a lot shorter. You see, we've found the place where you bought those necklaces. All we've got to do is get the shop owner to i.d. you and we've got an unbroken chain of evidence. So if you've got anything on your mind that might save me some trouble, the time to say it is now.”
Saddler was frowning. “Necklaces? What the hell are you talking about now? I ain't no damn jeweler.” He gave a half-hearted laugh in the direction of his lawyer. “This is going to be the easiest case you ever tried, man. These assholes are fucking crazy.”
“You're telling me you've never seen this before?”
Case removed the bound-girl necklace from his pocket and swung it in front of Saddler's face, counting on the element of surprise. He was rewarded with a scowl of disdain and then a slight narrowing of Saddler's eyes as he looked closer—a definite flicker of recognition.
“This is how you did them isn't it, Saddler?” Case demanded softly, swinging the little figure on the end of its leather thong. “You gave them this little toy, made them feel special, like a part of the club, and then, while you were raping them, to make it that much more exciting, you took the leather cord and tightened it around their necks until they were dead. Isn't that about what happened, Mr. Saddler?”
He saw Saddler swallow, and he thought, Gotcha, you son of a bitch.
But all Saddler said was, casually, “You get that off the Dennison girl?”
Case snatched the swinging pendant out of the air with his fist and returned the necklace to his pocket. To Soffit, he said, “This interview is over. The district attorney is waiting for us in my office.”
“Hey,” Saddler objected as they started for the door, “don't you just leave me here! I want to go back to my cell! Don't you just walk the fuck out and—”
“I'll see what I can do,” said Case.
He closed the door as soon as the attorney was through it, leaving a guard outside and Saddler alone to kick the wooden table like a child having a tantrum.
~
Chapter Forty
Patsy Long said, “It's good of you to come, Mr. Dennison.”
“I should have come earlier. I'm sorry I didn't.”
She smiled wanly and gestured for him to be seated on a sun-faded tropical print sofa.
She wasn't alone. Her mother had answered the door, and he had been vaguely introduced to sisters and sisters-in-law and cousins. They all had swollen eyes and stunned expressions, and Guy wished he had asked Carol to come with him. She was good at these things, the way women always were and men were not, and Patsy Long would have liked her. And then Guy felt a sharp stab of gratitude and wonder that seemed distinctly out of place here, because he could ask Carol, because she was safe and he was alive, and in the midst of tragedy they had found each other again; they would always have that.
But Patsy Long had nothing.
There was a pitcher of iced tea on the coffee table and Patsy offered to pour him a glass. He refused. The others withdrew to another part of the house, and he could hear the low murmur of voices, the occasional sniff or muffled sob.
Guy sat on the edge of the sofa with his hands linked between his knees, and he said, “I don't know how to tell you how sorry I am. How responsible I feel.”
“Derrick was a police officer, and proud of his work. He knew the risks and so did I. I think ... he would have wanted it this way. Death on the field of honor. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.”
She dropped her gaze and Guy was silent. After a moment, he said quietly, “My wife and I would like to attend the service, if you don't mind.”
Once again she searched for a smile. “So many people have been to pay their respects. I don't think I ever realized how many friends he had. The service is tomorrow at four, at Daltry's Funeral Home. I'd be honored to have you and your wife come.”
Guy said, “I wanted to tell you that the media has picked up on the story. There were television crews at the newspaper when I left and it won't be long before they're knocking on your door. It might be a good idea for you to ask someone—a neighbor or a friend—to deal with them until you feel up to it.”
“Yes. I'll do that. Thank you.” Then she looked uncertain. “Are you printing the whole story in the paper tonight?”
“I don't know the whole story yet,” Guy admitted. “All we can report is a follow-up on yesterday's story—that your husband died while investigating a stalking—mine.”
“I couldn't read the feature on the accident,” Patsy admitted, “but my mother read it out loud to me—most of it, anyway. I thought it was ... dignified. Thank you.”
“I didn't write it,” Guy said. “But I'll pass your thanks on to the reporter.”
She nodded. “Maybe that explains it then. I didn't understand why there was no mention of your daughter, and Mickie Anderson. That was what Derrick was really investigating.”
He must have looked surprised, because she explained, “It probably won't sound very professional to you, but Derrick and I always discussed his cases. I was his sounding board, I guess—or at least he used to pretend that talking to me about them was helpful. Sometimes I think he really just did it because he knew that feeling like I was involved in his work gave me more of a sense of control, and made me less afraid. Of course, in the end, it really didn't matter, did it?”
Guy was silent for a moment. Then he said, “We're trying not to print any speculation about this case, especially since the other local media are looking to us for leads. The truth is, even though everyone involved—your husband included—thought Saddler was connected with the death of Mickie Anderson, and possibly the kidnapping of my daughter, there's still not any proof.”
She nodded slowly, frowning. “There was something ... something I meant to tell John. Something Derrick was thinking.” She pressed her fingers to one temple. “Everything is so confused. Sometimes—most of the time it doesn't even seem real, you know?”
Guy said, “I've felt that way since the whole thing started. And even now that Saddler's in custody, it doesn't feel over.”
“That was it,” Patsy said suddenly. “Derrick was talking about patterns, and how that other girl who disappeared from here last year was probably part of the pattern—only Saddler was in jail then. He thought...” She looked at Guy. “I think he thought Saddler was innocent.”
Guy stared at her for a moment, not knowing how to respond. Then he said gently, “Mrs. Long, it was Saddler's fingerprints on the poker that knocked me out. He was seen planting the bomb on
my boat. I don't see how—”
“You said it yourself,” she pointed out simply. “There's evidence to connect him to everything—except the murders of those girls … and the attack on Laura Capstone.”
Now Guy was confused. “What?”
“She said the attacker had dark hair. Saddler has blond. That was what was bothering Derrick.”
“She could have been mistaken,” Guy said uneasily.
“But if she wasn't, Saddler didn't make the phone call that lured her to Lighthouse Point—or any of the other phone calls that were attributed to your daughter—and he didn't try to strangle her with the leather thong that was like the one Mickie Anderson or Tanya Little or your daughter Kelly had.”
“And that was the only thing that tied all the girls together,” Guy said slowly. “I never realized how fragile the chain of evidence was before. It all seemed so—logical.”
And then he looked at her with a new and difficult understanding. “But—if your husband was right, if it wasn't Saddler who made the phone calls and attacked Laura ... that means there's a murderer still running around loose out there. And he has my daughter.”
~
Chapter Forty-one
“Nah, these here are custom-made,” said Leon Beker, owner and manager of Brother Sun, Sister Moon, the new age jewelry and bookstore which had been the second one the deputies had checked in connection with the pendants. It was located on Pacific, next door to an ice cream shop which had once been the location of the Blue Dolphin where, one summer three years ago, Tanya Little had worked.
“See that craftsmanship?” Beker went on, his obvious pride in the notice his work was attracting outweighing—momentarily at least— his curiosity over why. “You don't get that off an assembly line. Each one of these babies is hand cast from a mold I created myself in the back room there. I don't offer 'em retail—you wouldn't believe the shoplifting that goes on in a place like this. These are solid pewter, you know. I hang 'em out front with the rest of the merchandise and I'm out one-fifty a pop.”
Sheriff Case thought he had rarely heard such good news in his life. A limited clientele, an exclusive, handmade product—breaks like this only came along once in a career, and he was damn due for one.
“So who do you sell them to?” he asked impatiently. “If not to retail customers—”
“Well I have a catalogue. I sell a lot of jewelry to retailers across the country, I'm pretty well known in my field—”
“This piece,” insisted Case, shaking the little figurine before him tightly. “This one piece, that’s all I'm interested in.”
“You mind if I ask why?”
“Yes.”
The way he said it must have given Beker a hint as to just how far Case could be pushed, and that he was very close to that line now. A certain wariness came into his eyes. It could have been the normal uneasiness ordinary citizens are prone to feeling when being questioned by the police. It could have been something more. Case couldn't help thinking about how many kids must come through a shop like this in the course of a year, and how easy it would be to suck them in with this new age crap. He decided to run a check on Beker when he got back to the office, just in case.
In a moment, Beker said, with a forced casualness that didn't quite ring true, “Fact of the matter is, I started doing a series about five, six years back on the Tarot. I figured it would go over real big with my kind of clientele, but only a couple of pieces took off. The Devil—a lot of them go to Satanists, stands to reason, and the Hanged Man, God only knows why, and the knight of swords. This little girl, she's the eight of swords, and I never would have done another firing of her if I'd had my way. All that hair, it's got to be detailed by hand, and—”
“Why did you?” interrupted Case. “Why did you keep making them?”
“Because I had a customer,” reported Beker smugly. “Walked in off the street one day, bought every one I had. He really bought that line about them being limited-edition collector's items. Didn't even blink when I told him one-fifty each. Comes back every now and then, and picks up three or four more, a hundred and fifty dollars each and every one. Hell, for that, sure it's worth running a little detail work.”
Case asked, “How many have you sold him?”
“Over the years? Oh, a dozen, maybe two.”
Case felt sick. “He give you a name?”
“Sure. Jack Smith. Says he's a dealer, but I don't believe it. A dealer buys in bulk and what kind of profit is he going to make once he's paid one-fifty a pop for these things? There's just not that kind of money in novelty jewelry, I'm telling you. Besides, I never see him at any of the shows. You want to know the truth? I think he's giving them to his girlfriends, probably into kinky sex.” He gave the pendant on the end of the thong a nudge with his fingertip and set it swinging. “Tell the truth, it does kind of put you in mind of that, doesn't it? Is that what you guys are sniffing out? Some kind of porno ring?”
Case took out a folded flier with the mug shot of Saddler on it and thrust it toward Beker roughly. “Is this your Jack Smith?”
Beker barely glanced at it. “Not even close.”
Case stared at him. “What?” Then, “Look again. Are you sure?”
“Not him.” Beker shoved the paper back across the counter. “Come on, the dude was in here just last week. I ought to know what he looks like.”
Case felt his blood start to run cold. “Describe him,” he commanded hoarsely.
***
Laura said, “I had Tammy do a little research, and our man Carlton is definitely ready to deal. His investment group, Main Street Enterprises, closed the sale of Little Horse Island last week. Here's the file if you want to see it.” She passed a manila folder across her desk and gave a sad shake of her head. “Forty three million dollars. And we never had a clue.”
Carol took the folder absently, opening it, but only pretending to read. “That's the way the rich folks play. And we're not even close to their league.”
“We might be, after today.”
“Do you think so?”
“And why not, I ask you? Haven't I batted my big blue eyes at him every chance I got? Haven't you driven him all over this island, given up your free time, practically become his best friend? Aren't we due for a break, for God's sake?” And she smiled, sympathetic to Carol's weariness and cynicism. “Yes, I think this is our big chance, and yes, I think Carlton is the key—and yes, I think he would understand if you asked to postpone the meeting.”
Carol shook her head. “No way. Major players like Ken Carlton don't understand excuses. Besides, I've already put him off more than once. I'm not taking the chance.”
“Then let me go. It's not as though you don't have other things on your mind.”
“Like you don't?” Carol closed the file and returned it with a wry smile. “Thanks for doing this. You didn't have to.”
“It gave me something to do.”
Carol said, “We didn't get to talk much yesterday. How are you doing?”
Laura shrugged a little uncomfortably. “Okay. Scared sometimes. Most of the time. But Winston has stayed over the last two nights, so all that lost sleep wasn't entirely wasted, if you know what I mean.”
Carol's smile was more relaxed this time. “Good for you. Try not to blow it again, okay?”
Laura regarded her steadily. “I should say the same for you.”
Again, Carol shook her head. “No, I think it's best to stay busy, to try to pretend everything's normal. The waiting is the worst part. I know I've been waiting for two and a half years but now...”
“Do you really think Saddler will confess?”
“I can't let myself think about that. The only thing I can think is that he knows where she is and he'll tell as part of the plea bargain.”
Laura's eyes were full of sympathy and understanding. “It was Kelly's voice on the phone, Carol, I could swear it. Her voice, only deeper.”
“That's what I thought at first,” Carol said,
“kind of husky, like she had a sore throat...”
Unconsciously, Laura's hand went to her own throat, where the narrow bruise had darkened to a sharp blue-violet. “Like mine,” Laura whispered, and the two women's eyes met in horrified comprehension.
“God,” Carol said, turning away. “God, I can't think about this.”
Laura got up from the desk. “Go home,” she said. “Go find Guy, go hold a vigil at the jail, go do what you've got to do. I'll take care of Carlton.”
Carol shook her head. “No, that would leave the office without an agent. Besides, if I go to Guy's office or the jail, I'll only end up fighting my way through cameras and microphones. I don't know why I'm so jumpy anyway. I mean, the worst is over, right? Saddler's in custody and…”
“And you don't want to be here if he says something you don't want to hear,” Laura said with sudden understanding.
After a moment, Carol nodded, dropping her gaze. “I know it’s silly, but I feel if I'm not here to hear it, maybe he won't say it. Oh, I don't know. But right now—it's just been so much so fast and I need to be away from it, just for a little while.” She hesitated. “Are you going to be okay here alone?”
“I'm not alone, Tammy's here, and Winston's picking me up at five. I won't be working late, so be back before dark.”
“You can bet on that. If Guy calls...” And she shook her head. “He won't. I told him I would be out. But if...” She drew in a sharp breath and finished, “If he does, I have my cell phone.”
Laura nodded in what she hoped was a reassuring way. “I'll tell him. But it’s going to be okay, kid. I have one of my famous feelings.”
Carol didn't point out that her famous feelings were famous for being wrong.
~
Chapter Forty-two
Derrick Long's official mail had been quietly and routinely forwarded to Case's desk. He found the padded envelope from the Gulf County Sheriffs Department at the bottom of a rather thin stack. He had never doubted it would be there; Long was too efficient an investigator not to have followed through on the last order he received before going off duty. Case had asked him to find out if there were any similarities between Melissa Conroy and Mickie Anderson. The file inside the envelope was the result.
