The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery

by Mike McIntyre

  I made a detour and called Mel at the Sun.

  “I’m coming to you,” I said. “I need to see everything you shot at the gala.”

  When I reached the Sun, I marched right past security. The San Diego torture slayer had my wife. We were all on the same side now. Not even Old Lady Rampling would try to stop me.

  I found Mel in the photo department. She had the museum gala photo files loaded on the screen of her Mac.

  Mel clicked open the first file. A column of thumbnail shots appeared.

  “You sure snapped enough pictures of the mayor,” I said.

  “He looks drunk,” Mel said.

  “Feeling no pain.”

  “Soon enough.”

  Mel scrolled down the screen, opening and closing files. The number of photos was overwhelming.

  Many guests had reached for appetizers, so there were scores of photos of the masked waiters. But there were more waiters than I’d recalled.

  “They all look alike in those black masks,” Mel said.

  “There’s got to be some way to identify one of them,” I said. “Let’s blow up every picture with a waiter in it. Maybe we’ll see a distinguishing mark, like a tattoo.”

  I could stake out Pacific Catering. When I spotted the employee with the distinguishing mark, I could ask him who else worked the gala. He may not be as worried about privacy issues as his boss.

  We scrolled through pages of thumbnails. Whenever we spotted an image with a waiter in it, Mel clicked the mouse and enlarged it. My eyes started to glaze over.

  “Wait!” I said. “Go back one. I think I saw something.”

  Mel closed the picture on the screen and re-opened the previous one.

  “Look at this.” I pointed to a man in a black leather mask. He held a tray of canapés. “See his hand?”

  “A ring,” Mel said.

  “Right.”

  “It looks like one of those big, ugly rings from college.”

  “A class ring,” I agreed. “Or maybe a fraternity ring.”

  “Hey, didn’t that security photo from—” Mel began, but I was already one step ahead.

  I fished through my satchel and pulled out the grainy photo police had released of the Tiffany Samples kidnapping. The unseen abductor wore an unusually large ring, obscured by shadows. I held the photo to the computer screen, next to the image of the masked waiter.

  We studied the two rings.

  “It’s possible,” Mel said.

  I squinted at the ring in the picture of the waiter. “There’s some writing on it, but I can’t make it out. Zoom in.”

  Mel pointed the cursor at the ring and clicked the mouse. The raised gold letters on the ring were clearer, but I still couldn’t read them. “I can’t tell what it says.”

  “I’ll print it out,” Mel said. “We can look at it through the loupe.”

  Mel got the picture from the printer and set it on the desk. She handed me a loupe, the small magnifier photo editors use to look at proof sheets.

  I peered at the ring through the loupe.

  “I know what it is!”

  CHAPTER 78

  “It’s a sports ring,” I said.

  “A sports ring?” Mel said.

  “The kind pro sports teams give to players for championships, like the Super Bowl or the World Series.”

  The large ring in the photo was only partially visible. The man’s other fingers and the tray he held obscured some of the letters.

  “Have a look,” I said, passing the loupe to Mel.

  She peered through the magnifier at the ring.

  “See those three letters on the left—G-U-E?” I said. “And right after that, a new word that begins C-H-A-M?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look a little to the right, and you’ll see a number.”

  “It looks like eighty-two.”

  “I bet if this waiter’s tray and his other fingers weren’t blocking the rest of the letters and numbers, the ring would read League Champions 1982,” I said.

  “What about these three letters at the bottom of the ring. It looks like H-A-M.”

  “It must be part of the team’s name.”

  I grabbed the almanac from the photo editor’s desk and looked up the 1982 champions of the major sports leagues. The San Francisco 49ers won the Super Bowl, the L.A. Lakers won the NBA title and the St. Louis Cardinals won the World Series. None of those teams had H-A-M in their names.

  “I can’t think of a single team in the whole country with H-A-M in it,” I said.

  “Maybe it’s not an American team,” Mel said. “What if it’s a soccer team from Hamburg, Germany? Or a rugby team from Birmingham, England.”

  I sagged in the chair, realizing all the possibilities.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but I know someone who might.”

  I ran downstairs to the newsroom and found Karen Babcock, the sports editor.

  “If I told you I saw a sports ring with the words League Champions 1982 and the letters H-A-M, could you tell me the team?” I said.

  “Eighty-two, eighty-two, eighty-two,” Karen said, tapping her head. “Let’s see, not the Niners, not the Lakers, not the Cards.”

  “I’ve already checked the obvious ones. I thought it might be some foreign team.”

  “Where did you see this ring?”

  “On a waiter’s hand.”

  “A local restaurant?”

  “He was with the catering staff that worked the gala for the Museum of Medieval History.”

  Karen smiled. “He’s got to be one of the Hammers.”

  “The Hammers?”

  “The San Diego Hammers.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Before your time.”

  “I’m a pretty big sports nut, Karen. I don’t know how the San Diego Hammers ever slipped by me.”

  “That’s because you’re thinking big-time sports.”

  “So they were some minor league team?”

  “Yeah, they were minors, alright,” Karen said. “They won the Little League World Series in 1982. Beat the team from Taiwan.”

  Something didn’t add up. “A kid’s ring wouldn’t fit a man’s finger.” I said. “Wait, who was the coach?”

  “Al Shard,” Karen said. “His store sponsored the team.”

  “Store?”

  “Fifth Avenue Hardware. The Hammers. Get it?”

  I froze on the word hardware. Robert Graywalls had suspected the killer was a medieval torture expert who went by the online alias Mr. Hardware. Now I knew that Friar Tom was a hardware store owner named Al Shard.

  “Tell me everything you know about Shard,” I said excitedly.

  “Haven’t talked to him in years, not since he quit coaching,” Karen said. “He was a real character, though. He had this weekly spot on Channel 13 News called Mr. Fixit. People would call in and he’d give them home repair tips. Everybody loved him. He was going to run for mayor, then he got arrested for drunk driving, and he dropped off the radar.”

  I was heading for the door. I called back to Karen, “Fifth Avenue Hardware—must be in the Gaslamp?”

  “Last I heard.”

  CHAPTER 79

  Minutes later I was running down the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue, in the heart of the historic Gaslamp Quarter, San Diego’s answer to New Orleans’ French Quarter.

  Trendy restaurants, lounges and boutiques flashed by in a blur as I sought out the only business that mattered.

  I finally spotted the sign up ahead, jutting over the sidewalk: Fifth Avenue Hardware.

  Al Shard, alias Friar Tom—Jordan’s abductor—was within reach.

  I sprinted faster, then suddenly pulled up.

  What was I thinking? Shard had Jordan locked away in some medieval torture chamber. I had nothing on him. He’d recognize me the instant I blew through his door—and Jordan would be as good as dead.

  I mulled my dilemma. For about a second. Then I resumed running.

  I had no choice.
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  When I reached the storefront window, what I saw took away my last breath. The shelves were empty. Fifth Avenue Hardware was no more.

  A temporary sign painted in the window read: Coming Soon! Gaslamp Bar & Bistro. The new restaurant would anchor the ground floor of a refurbished old brick building. The six-story mixed-use structure bore the name Gaslamp Galleria. Higher floors were already home to pricey shops and elegant lofts.

  My lungs burned. I bent over, gasping for air.

  I glanced north to the adjacent business, a floral shop called Vern’s Flower Box. A man of about seventy stocked outdoor displays with flowers. I caught his eye.

  “What happened to—?” I started, nodding at the storefront that was once Fifth Avenue Hardware.

  “Latest casualty of the Gaslamp,” the man said.

  I walked over and gave the man a fake name. He shook my hand and said his name was Vern.

  “Rents tripled after the mayor increased the number of liquor licenses downtown,” Vern said. “Thank, God, the wife and I own.”

  I peered inside. A woman about Vern’s age arranged roses.

  “Yeah, the restaurants and bars have pushed out most the mom and pop businesses,” he said. “Now you can eat, drink and be merry at a thousand places in the Gaslamp, but good luck buying a screwdriver.”

  “When did the hardware store go under?”

  “About four months ago now,” he said. “A real loss, if you ask me. That place was an institution.”

  “So you knew Al Shard?”

  Vern smiled. “Best friend I’ve ever had. Full of life. He had a spot every Tuesday night on the news called Mr. Fixit. Maybe you remember?”

  I nodded to keep him talking.

  “We were on the same bowling team for nineteen years. You could count on that man in the clutch. But his baseball team was his real passion. His whole world revolved around those boys.”

  “The Hammers,” I said.

  “Right. Little League World Champs of eighty-two. My son, Jason, played catcher. I was the third base coach.”

  I tried to hide my shock. Al Shard wasn’t the only one with an adult-sized championship ring. There was also Vern here, as well as any other dads who coached the Hammers in 1982.

  I watched Vern run a wrinkled hand through his gray hair. That bothered me. Any member of the 1982 coaching staff would now be at least middle-aged, more likely a senior citizen—and serial killers were never senior citizens. Almost never anyway.

  Even so, I couldn’t ignore the Mr. Hardware connection. Al Shard had to be somehow involved.

  “So can you tell me where I can find him?” I said.

  “Who, Al?” Vern said.

  I nodded.

  “Hell, son, Al’s been dead seven years.”

  “But I thought he just closed the hardware store.”

  “The boy closed the store,” Vern said. “The boy, Luther. It’s maybe him you’re looking for. He took over after Al passed on.”

  My heart raced. “Did Luther ever play ball for his dad?”

  Vern frowned. “Luther wasn’t real athletic as a kid. Had two left feet. He tried out for the team when he was nine or ten, but Al cut him. Kind of harsh, if you ask me. And I told Al that.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Blew his top. Said he didn’t want any losers on the team, and if I didn’t like it, I could buzz off. It was the only time me and Al ever had words.”

  “So Luther wasn’t a member of the eighty-two Hammers?”

  “Well, he was and he wasn’t. Al made Luther the batboy after he cut him. Luther was humiliated, but Al wouldn’t let him quit. Not for years. He was still the batboy the summer he graduated high school, the year we won the title.”

  That explained the adult-sized ring.

  “What did Luther do after high school?”

  “Ran off and joined the navy, but he washed out. Came home and went to college. He knocked around a bit before Al finally brought him into the business.”

  “Sounds like the son never measured up to the old man.”

  “Except in one area,” Vern said. “Luther turned out better at hardware than Al. That boy knows nuts and bolts like nobody’s business. Boy—I don’t know why I keep calling him that. I guess he’ll always be a boy to me, even though he must be about forty-five now.”

  “If he was so good at the hardware business, how did he lose the store?”

  “Not for lack of effort, that’s for sure. I’ve never seen anyone work harder. Al pretty much used the store to fund his ball club and all his other extracurricular activities, play the big man about town. By the time Luther got his hands on it, Al had run that store into the ground. But Luther turned it around and made a real go of it. He organized a downtown merchants association and won some tax concessions. But in the end, he was no match for redevelopment—or the big chains that undercut him.”

  I looked back down the sidewalk. If I needed more proof that Luther Shard was Friar Tom, it now stared me in the face. In a second-story window of Gaslamp Galleria—above the defunct Fifth Avenue Hardware—a sign read: Space Available, Contact Tate Development Co.

  Whether she knew it, Nina Tate had hastened Luther Shard’s demise.

  There were so many things I wanted to ask. Was the man-child batboy awarded a ring? Did he now work for Pacific Catering? Did his interest in hardware extend to devices of torture?

  But Vern sounded sympathetic to Luther. If he didn’t believe my suspicions, he might tell Luther that I was tracking him.

  Vern sighed. “Luther hasn’t had an easy road. His wife died recently.”

  He gave me the particulars on Dana Shard’s long, agonizing death. They left no doubt that her husband was Friar Tom.

  “And his girl is real sick, too,” Vern added. “Got some chronic disease.”

  Vern called inside to his wife. “Honey, what’s that disease Luther’s girl Audrey has?”

  The woman looked up from the roses. “Cerebral palsy.”

  “Cerebral palsy, right,” Vern said to me. “A real shame. When Luther went belly up, he lost his health insurance. He had to scramble to find coverage for Audrey, and I mean fast.”

  “So where did he go?” I said.

  “The damndest place…”

  CHAPTER 80

  I bolted from the florist’s and dialed Walton’s direct line at SDPD. I wanted to throw my phone in the street when I heard the call go to voice mail.

  I kept running, waiting for Walton’s recorded greeting to end, then blurted:

  “Detective, it’s Tyler West. Listen! Friar Tom is a man named Luther Shard. He ran Fifth Avenue Hardware until he went bust a few months ago. He had major issues with most of the victims. His wife Dana died of brain cancer. Guess who her surgeon was? Lindblatt. He lost his store in the Gaslamp to redevelopment—the mayor and Nina Tate’s pet project. His kid is severely disabled, so he had to take some flunky job for the insurance. You’ll never guess where…HomeMart! Shard has Jordan, I’m sure of it. You’ve got to find him. Please, hurry!”

  I stopped to catch my breath. Vern had given me Luther Shard’s phone number. I couldn’t just call the killer at home and tip him off. But I had to do something.

  I launched the reverse phone number lookup app on my phone and entered Shard’s number. A listing popped up: Shard, Luther and Dana, 4044 Moultrie Ave. I didn’t recognize the street name. I clicked the “Map It” tab. A street map appeared, with a red star in the middle. Another street name on the map caught my eye. Shard lived around the corner from 2768 Brandywine Street, where he had dumped the broken body of Darcy McLaren. No wonder he was able to case the house and study the routines of Scott and Linda Johnson. He was their neighbor. He fit right in.

  I called Walton again, praying he’d pick up, but it went straight to voice mail. I cursed, then left Walton a message telling him where Shard lived.

  I sprinted the rest of the way to the Sun building and got my car. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I coul
dn’t wait around for the police to find my wife.

  Fifteen minutes later I tore through the streets of Clairemont. A speed bump bounced me off my seat.

  I didn’t want Shard to see me, so I turned down Brandywine and parked in front of the Johnsons’. Yellow tape circled the house, but the cops and crime techs had already cleared out. The bike I’d stolen that morning at the library still sat on the front lawn. Nothing I could do about that now.

  I got out of my car and crept down the sidewalk toward the corner. How are you going to play this?

  I reached Moultrie Avenue and turned right. I forced myself to casually stroll, trying to look inconspicuous.

  But I realized there was a good chance that Jordan was locked inside a house up ahead—and her captor was inside there with her. The longer I dallied, the greater danger Jordan was in.

  There was only one way to approach Shard—head on.

  I broke into a run.

  I spotted the number 4044 on the mailbox at the foot of the driveway. The two-story house was tidy but plain, utterly unremarkable. It displayed no hint that it was the home of a depraved killer.

  There were no cars in the driveway, but I saw the garage. Its door was closed.

  Before I had time to think, I found myself bounding the stairs of the landing at the side of the house. I banged as hard as I could on Shard’s door. I bounced on the balls of my feet, my fury building. The instant Friar Tom opened that door, I’d set upon him.

  I waited, listened.

  I heard no footsteps approaching, nothing.

  “Jordan!” I yelled, banging again. “Jordan? Are you in there?”

  The door had no window. The drapes of the living room windows were closed.

  “Jordan!”

  There was no answer.

  I ran from the landing and entered the backyard. I noticed a swing set and slide. They had been modified with special seats and safety barriers to accommodate a handicapped child.

  I leapt onto the back porch and rapped on the door. I couldn’t see inside. The curtains were drawn on every window.

  “Jordan!”

  I pressed an ear to the door. Nothing.

  I looked around. In the distance, I saw the Johnsons’ back deck. Their sliding glass door was smashed from the barbecue I’d rammed through it only hours earlier. Shard had a clear view of the house. He’d probably observed me from here, watching gleefully as I’d frantically tried to reach Jordan before it was too late.