Early in the evening, just after dinner, the phone rings. Now, Val and I have always had this arrangement: if somebody calls the house, whether I’m home or not, she is supposed to tell them I’m not home—unless I tell her otherwise. I figure this is one of those times.
“If that’s a Wanda Lynn, get her number, and tell her I’ll call her back.” I figure this way I’ll have her phone number, and if she doesn’t cooperate, I can always get her address through a reverse directory. Sometimes, it pays to be a cop.
A minute later, Val enters my study, carrying the portable phone. “It’s for you,” she says. “It’s Frank Lynn, the husband, I guess.”
I blow Val a kiss, and take the receiver from her hand. “Hello, this is Chief Davis.”
“Yeah, Chief. It’s Frank Lynn. I tried to reach Wanda, but she’s left town. Usually, when we have a blow out, she goes to her sister’s place, over in Elmira, but her sister says she ain’t seen her for at least six months. I gotta tell ya, I really don’t care if I see that woman again – no offense – but, she’s just a pain in the ass.”
“Do you think anything has happened to her?”
“Nah. That’s just Wanda. When I get my Visa bill, I’ll probably find out she’s down in Florida or somethin’, spendin’ money she ain’t got and I can’t pay back. I told you, all she does is buy shit. But, I promise, as soon as I hear from her, I’ll ask her about the bracelet, and I’ll get back to ya.”
Damn!
“Okay, Mr. Lynn. I appreciate the call. If I don’t hear from you in a week or so, I’ll get back in touch, okay?”
“No problem. Anytime.” And he hangs up.
Whoever said being a chief of police in a rural precinct would be easy was a damned liar. I fear the ride to Mexico is getting closer and closer, and I’m not looking forward to it.
Chapter 44
Rhonda, some time the previous fall – still day eleven, early evening
Bryce Wilson carefully guides the Jetta up and over Bear Spring Mountain Road toward Walton. Along the way, he points out the radio station’s big, lighted sign.
“WLUV, huh?” says Rhonda. “Pretty slick…Not!”
“Hey,” says Bryce, “I didn’t name it. I just work there. But, it is slick as shit, if I don’t say so myself.” They both have a laugh, and Rhonda snuggles closer to the disc jockey.
A couple of miles later, and Bryce slides the Jetta into a narrow spot in the parking lot, behind Antonucci’s Pizzeria, in downtown Walton. When he first came to New York State, after leaving Detroit (somewhat in a hurry, if truth be told), it took him over a month to find decent pizza. But, the wait was worth it, and now Antonucci’s has become his “go to” pizzeria whenever the urge for a pepperoni pie should strike. Somehow, the craving always seems intensified when he makes the acquaintance of a new “hottie”—like tonight.
Rhonda figures there’s no big rush to get to North Carolina, so why not scrounge a free meal or two. The two exit the Jetta, and start for the back door.
“How old did you say you were again?” asks Bryce. He’s still a bit wary—but, not so much that he won’t take a chance.
“I told you. I’m eighteen.”
“Good.”
Once inside, Rhonda excuses herself, and heads for the ladies room. Bryce orders the pizza and a cold antipasto “to go.” He almost always gets his order to go; that way, he doesn’t have to leave a tip. If the pizza’s cold by the time they get back to the radio station, he figures he can always throw it in the microwave.
A few minutes later, he sees Rhonda emerge from the bathroom. It’s amazing, he thinks, what a broad can do with a few minutes and a comb in a restroom. And, not only that, but bleached blonds have always been a special turn-on. Rhonda looks terrific.
“Oh,” he says to the waitress, “and, give us a couple of ‘Jennies,’ too. But, don’t take ‘em out of the fridge until the pizza’s ready.” Cold beer and hot pizza, he thinks. Nothing better—except a hot babe.
Fifteen minutes later, Bryce steers the Jetta out of the lot, makes a right turn, and heads back up Route 206, towards the studio. Rhonda has the box containing the pizza and the antipasto on her lap, and the bag with the two Genesee Ales between her ankles. The radio is blasting a Reggae melody by Bob Marley, and the car is rocketing toward the radio station. What could be better? thinks Rhonda.
Bryce couldn’t agree more.
Once inside the radio station, Bryce takes the box with the pizza and antipasto, and heads for the little galley kitchen in the back of the studio. “Put those beers in the freezer,” he calls over his shoulder to Rhonda. “That way they’ll be nice and cold when we have our pizza.” Rhonda does as he suggests. Damn! Why do I always get so freakin’ horny when I eat pizza? The answer is obvious. Maybe it’s because you always order pizza when you’re horny, dumbass. Can’t beat logic.
Bryce pops the pizza into the microwave oven, and pushes the button marked “One Minute.” As the carousel twirls noisily within the microwave, Bryce grabs a couple of paper plates from the cabinet below, along with two plastic forks for the antipasto. “Here,” he says to Rhonda. Put these on the coffee table over there by the couch. And, here’s a couple of napkins.” He hands her the utensils, paper plates, and napkins, and turns back to the microwave, which is just now beeping.
By the time Bryce brings the pizza over to the couch, Rhonda has divided up the antipasto, and poured the cold beer into some foam cups she found in the bathroom. Despite the effect of the microwave, which causes the pizza to lose some of its crispiness, the pie holds up remarkably well; and in short order, all that’s left are a few scraps of crust. Rhonda picks one up, and nibbles idly while sucking down the remains of her beer. Bryce is thinking of nibbling something else. He wants to behave himself, but watching the nubile, young teenager is almost more than he can bear.
“How about another beer?” he asks, opening the refrigerator door. “I’ve got enough ‘Jennies’ to keep us going for a week.”
“Sure,” says Rhonda. “Why not?”
Bryce opens a beer for himself, and unscrews another for Rhonda, who walks over and takes it from his outstretched hand, letting her hand slide over his arm, and sending goose bumps up his spine. Finally, he can’t take it anymore. He puts down his beer bottle, walks over to the broadcast console, and puts a CD into the auxiliary player he keeps there for just these occasions. The soft strains of Rod Stewart singing “The Very Thought of You,” wash over the studio through multiple speakers scattered around its perimeter. Bryce uses the rheostat to soften the lighting, and beckons to Rhonda to join him in a dance. Soon, the two are shuffling slowly around in a compact box step, the alcohol working its magic on the unsuspecting girl.
Fantastic, thinks Bryce.
Just fantastic.
Chapter 45
Bobcat paces nervously back and forth in my office, waiting for me to get off the phone. Perspiration is dripping down the sides of his face. He hates when I spring surprises on him. Last night, I left a message on his voicemail, telling him to be in the office first thing in the morning. That was it, nothing more. He has no idea what it was about—not a clue. Now, here he is, waiting for me to get off the phone.
Finally, I hang up the receiver, and look up at him, with a frown on my face.
“I got a call yesterday from an Annette Miller over in Binghamton. Her seventeen-year old daughter’s been missing for almost six months. She wants to know if we’ve picked up any runaways lately. I told her no. It seems like she’s just started calling the police in the area, but she figured since Roscoe’s the main stop between Binghamton and the city, she’d give us a try first.”
Bobcat is incredulous. “And she never bothered to call anyone before now? What the hell kind of mother is she, anyway?”
“Apparently, not a very good one,” I say. “She said the kid’s run off before, but she always comes back within a month or two. Seems like this time she had a fight with her stepfather, and the mother was afraid to
call the cops.”
“Why?” asks Bob, his face colored with anger and disbelief.
“The kid brained the guy with a beer bottle before she took off; split his head wide open. He almost croaked, and the old lady was afraid the cops might have forced him to press charges. Maybe he’s not screwing her, but my guess is that he’s been molesting the kid ever since he and the old lady tied the knot.” Bobcat nods in agreement. “Anyway, the two of them made up some story about the stepfather slipping on a wet kitchen floor. Told EMS that he was holding a beer bottle when it happened, and he landed on it when he fell.”
“Jeez,” says Bobcat. “Nice little family.”
“There’s more. Seems the stepfather told the old lady that if the kid ever came back he’d kill her.”
Bob stares at me open-mouthed. “She told you that?”
“Well…not exactly, but it doesn’t take a genius to read between the lines. So, I thought you might like to take a ride over there and pick up a couple of pictures she’s got of the kid. I didn’t dare tell her about our investigation.”
“Yeah,” says Bobcat, “no point in getting her all worked up over what might turn out to be nothing. At least, I hope so.”
“That makes two of us,” I reply.
“Not to be a pain in the ass or anything,” says Bob, “but why doesn’t she just mail the pictures? Wouldn’t that be the easiest thing to do? I mean, after all, it’s already been six months. What’s another couple of days?”
“Well, actually, I have an ulterior motive.” I twirl a pencil absent-mindedly between my fingers, waiting for Bobcat to respond.
“Ulterior motive? You? Really?”
“Yeah. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
Bobcat just smiles.
“Okay, here’s what I have in mind. I figure maybe you can brace her a bit – gently, of course – and, maybe you’ll get a better feel for what really happened between the kid and the stepfather. Maybe she’ll let you take a look around the kid’s bedroom—if she had even had her own room.”
“Yeah,” quips Bobcat, “who knows, maybe the three of ‘em shared the same bed.” He paces back and forth, and then stops. “It’s been done before, ya know. Once, on Jerry Springer, I saw this couple―”
“Okay, okay,” I say. “I get the picture. Anyway, look around for a diary, maybe an iPod, or better yet, a computer with e-mail addresses. Stuff like that. Anything that might give us a clue as to where she might have run off to.”
“No problem,” says Bobcat.
“And while you’re at it,” I say, “bring back something that might have some DNA on it. A hairbrush would be the best thing. Or maybe a used tissue from out of a wastebasket. If this woman is anything like I think she is, the joint’s probably a mess.”
“Yeah,” replies Bobcat. “I know what you mean. Once on Maury, there was this lady who collected bird shit, and—”
“Okay,” I say with a smile, “you better get started. The sooner we can get that DNA matched up – if it’s hers – the better it’ll be for all concerned.”
“Well, almost,” says Bobcat. “It’s weird, you know; there’s one part of you that wants it to match, but then there’s that other part, the part that…” His voice trails off, and I can swear that his eyes are moist. It’s a side of my patrolman that I’m not often privy to.
“Okay,” I say, “anyway, here’s her name, address, and phone number.” I hand Bob the slip of paper. Bob takes it, and scans it briefly, before folding it carefully, and putting it in his shirt pocket. “Oh, and don’t forget the pictures. We wouldn’t want the mother to think we’re not going to look for her daughter. But, if the DNA doesn’t match, we’ll turn the photos over to State, and let them worry about it.”
“Right,” replies Bobcat. “We’ve got enough to worry about, right here. I’ll get back as fast as I can.” He turns away, and hurries out the door.
I reflect on Bobcat’s speculation about the DNA match, and for an instant envision the first homicide victim I ever saw. She was a seven-year old Korean girl, whose naked body we found stuffed in a wall, in the basement of a tenement building in Chelsea. My partner actually threw up. The image has haunted me ever since, and even now it can still make me wince. Taking a handkerchief from my pocket, I wipe a bit of moisture from my own eyes.
Parents! There ought to be an exam.
Chapter 46
Peggy, December, the previous year – the evening of day two
The office lights are off, and Jake fears his evening may be over before it even begins. The snow is swirling around like the fake stuff in one of those miniature glass balls, except this snow is cold and wet, and it sticks to his shirt, dampening it, and making him shiver. Crap! He’s starved and thirsty. He tries the door, but it’s locked tight. Double crap! He knocks hard on the metal surface, and is rewarded almost immediately when the small, dark-skinned, Middle Eastern-looking owner unlocks the door, and opens it a fraction.“Yes?” he says. “Can I help you?” The singsong tenor of his voice is friendly, but somewhat wary.
Who could blame him? “Yeah,” replies Jake, “I was hoping you’d have a soda machine. Or, better yet, maybe one of those machines that sells snacks; chips, pretzels, something like that?”
“We do,” replies the man.
“Can you tell me where it is? Me and my friend are really starved. We haven’t had anything to eat since this morning.”
The motel owner hesitates, looking the young man up and down cautiously, then opens the door just wide enough to permit Jake access. “Come in,” says the man. “It’s here, inside the office.”
Jake brushes the snow off his shoulders, stomps his feet good and hard to remove any of the white stuff, and enters the office. The little man quickly closes and locks the door behind him. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But, you can never be too careful, you know.”
“Hey, no problem,” says Jake. “I don’t blame you. It’s pretty remote out here. You never know who’s going to come knocking on your door. I really appreciate you letting me in.”
“Yes,” replies the man. “Well, okay, here are the machines.” He motion toward several battered machines lining the left-hand wall of the office.
Not much choice, thinks Jake. “Hmmm, let’s see,” he says, scanning the selections on the soft drink dispenser. “Whatta ya think a lady would like?” he asks the proprietor.
“I really can’t say,” replies the little man. “Well, actually, my wife always likes the Dr. Pepper—diet, of course!”
“Dr. Pepper it is,” says Jake. “Oh, do you have change?”
“Right over there,” says the man, pointing to a change machine in the far corner. “You can use a dollar, five dollars, or a ten,” he advises.
“Right,” replies Jake. He pulls out a dog-eared billfold from his back pocket, and riffling through its contents, extracts a weathered five-dollar bill. The first time he tries it in the machine, it is expelled with a loud buzzing sound. He takes the bill, and carefully smoothes down the edges of the corners, then inserts it into the machine again. This time, there is a humming sound, followed by the cascading of quarters into a metal trough below. He scoops up the coins, counts out three, and quickly inserts them, one after another, into the soda machine.
Five minutes later, Jake exits the motel office carrying a can of diet Dr. Pepper, another of Mountain Dew (his favorite), and two cellophane packages of peanut butter and crackers. It’s not great, he thinks. But, it’s better than nothing.
Back at the room, he is welcomed with open arms by Peggy, who has apparently showered and changed into pajamas. A broad smile crosses her face when she sees the Mountain Dew.
“Oh, Jake. You got my favorite,” she says. Unaware of her preference, Jake hands her the can of diet Dr. Pepper.
“No, silly,” she says. “not that. I hate Dr. Pepper.
So, do I, thinks Jake.
“Gimme the Dew!” says Peggy.
“Oh, sure,” he says. “I should have known be
tter. Here.” He reluctantly hands over the can of Mountain Dew. Triple crap!
Peggy takes the can of soda, pops the top, and chugs down half of its contents in one long swallow. “Did you get us any food?” she asks.
“Yeah,” replies Jake, somewhat embarrassed by what he’s brought back. “Got some cheese and crackers.” Then, almost by way of apology, he adds, “It’s all they had.”
“Hey, no sweat. Can I pay you for the soda and stuff?”
“No way,” he replies. “I already told you. My folks have plenty of money. It’s my treat.”
“I know,” says Peggy. “But…well…okay, but I really appreciate it – everything, I mean – especially the room. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along. I really mean it.”
Jake blushes. He hopes she really will show her appreciation – the right way – the only way that really makes sense. He pops the top on the Dr. Pepper, and takes a sip.
Ugh! He hates diet Dr. Pepper.
Chapter 47
Bobcat has a Charlie Daniels CD, “Super Hits,” playing full blast in the CD player mounted under the dash of his Pathfinder, and is singing along with the lyrics to “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” He’s had the CD ever since it was released back in 1994, and it’s a wonder it still plays—but it does. Quickly glancing down at the digital readout in the corner of the display, Bob notes the time; it’s ten-twenty five. He drums his fingers on the dashboard. “Come on,” he says. “Hurry up.” He’s hoping he can get to Binghamton by around eleven, spend an hour or so with Mrs. Miller, and still get back to Roscoe in time for the “All You Can Eat” lunch buffet at the new Chinese restaurant, which runs from noon until two. The place opened up just two weeks ago, and he’s been dying to try it out. It’s a long shot, but it just might be doable. He presses down a bit harder on the accelerator, pushing his speed up to eighty. After all, he reasons, he is a cop, and he is on police business. Then, he backs off the accelerator with a sigh, and watches as the speedometer drops down to a respectable sixty-five. Who is he kidding? “Damn!” he exclaims aloud. “Sometimes work really sucks.”
Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 18
