The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery

by Mike McIntyre

  I watched and waited. I waited some more. It grew dark. What was taking so long? What was Shard doing inside the van?

  A Toyota Camry that was parked next to Shard’s van backed up and pulled away. I kept my eye on the van. It didn’t move. I suddenly panicked. Had I missed something? Had Shard slipped out of the passenger door of his van and driven away in the Camry?

  I jumped from my car and ran toward the parking lot.

  But an instant later, the van’s reverse lights went on and the van was backing out of the space.

  I hurried to my car and started the engine. I saw Shard pull back onto Morena, and I followed him.

  When he turned into the Clairemont neighborhood, I realized he was driving home. Why hadn’t he taken the 805 from HomeMart and cut over on Balboa Avenue? It was much shorter. He couldn’t have detoured this way for the tacos. There was another Ernesto’s on Balboa. It didn’t make sense.

  The van turned onto Moultrie. When Shard pulled into his driveway, I cut my lights and parked across the street.

  The automatic garage door opened, and the van drove in. I didn’t see anything unusual inside. No torture instruments, anyway. The automatic door closed, and Shard presumably entered his house from the attached garage.

  I left my car and crept across the street to the two-story stucco house. The living room drapes were closed. I ducked beneath the window.

  I strained to listen. I heard voices. Two of them. One male, one female. The sound was muffled. I couldn’t make out much. Just enough to tell that the female voice did not belong to Jordan.

  The voices drew nearer, closer to the front door. I heard Shard say the word goodnight.

  I turned from the house and ran back to my car.

  Moments later, Shard’s front door opened. I saw a middle-aged woman step out under the porch light. It was the neighbor lady, the one who had seen me sneaking around Shard’s backyard earlier in the day. What did she have to do with all of this? Was she Friar Tom’s accomplice?

  I watched the woman walk down the driveway and turn toward her place.

  I returned my focus to Shard’s house. A light went on upstairs. I didn’t detect any motion. A few minutes later, the light went out.

  The house was dark and silent.

  The hours passed. It killed me to sit in the car and do nothing. Was Jordan inside, or did Shard have her locked in some hidden location?

  Shard knew I was onto him. If he suspected that I was watching him, he’d never visit Jordan at a secret torture chamber. That struck me as sufficient reason to keep him in my sights, until I considered that Shard was Jordan’s lifeline. When had he last fed her? Given her water? If I thwarted his movement, Jordan could starve to death or die of thirst.

  I had to balance that scenario against the image of Jordan already trapped inside some barbaric contraption.

  I recalled Friar Tom’s letter to me. He said Jordan was his leverage. He wouldn’t harm her as long as I gave him the coverage he craved. Maybe he was keeping his promise. Maybe he was trying to call me at home to give his next interview, upset that he couldn’t reach me.

  I was torn. Whatever decision I made might spell Jordan’s doom.

  I reluctantly started the car and drove home.

  CHAPTER 89

  It was after eleven when I got home. Lisa was still up, folding clothes on the kitchen table.

  “Did he call?” I said.

  Lisa shook her head.

  “Heather?”

  “Asleep, finally,” Lisa said. “She’s had a rough day, crying for Jordan. She asks about the police outside. I think she knows something’s happened to her mother. I don’t know how long we can keep this a secret from her.”

  I sighed. “I’ll talk to her in the morning.”

  “Talk to me about what?” I turned and saw Heather in the hallway. I swallowed hard when I saw her lip tremble. I couldn’t hide the truth from her any longer. Not all of it, anyway.

  “Heather, honey, come sit down,” I said.

  We sat on the couch. Torpedo jumped in Heather’s lap. She stroked the cat and looked into my eyes with anticipation. I fought to get the words out.

  “Sweetheart, there’s something I’ve got to tell you,” I began.

  “Mommy’s dead, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, no, sweetheart. No, not at all.”

  It had been a mistake to keep Heather in the dark. I had let her assume the worst—that she had lost both of her parents.

  “Your mom is very much alive.”

  “Then why doesn’t she come home?”

  “She’d love nothing more than to come home and see you, but she can’t right now,” I said. “The good news is that she’s in a safe place.”

  I had to believe Friar Tom was keeping his word. I had to believe that with all my heart.

  I imagined the house of horrors where Jordan was held. Heather watched me struggle to paint a less sinister picture. She must have sensed that my so-called “good news” was over.

  “Ty, please don’t tell me anymore. I don’t want any bad thoughts of Mommy. I only want to think good thoughts. I want my good thoughts to bring her home.”

  “Good girl,” I said, hugging her. “You’re very brave.”

  She went back to bed, and I slumped on the sofa.

  “You look exhausted,” Lisa said.

  “It’s nothing compared to what Jordan’s enduring.”

  “We had lasagna. Want me to microwave you some?”

  I shook my head. “Not hungry, thanks.”

  “I’m going to sleep,” Lisa said. “You should try to get some rest, too.”

  I nodded, gave her a weak smile.

  The house grew quiet. I heard the clock ticking, and outside in the distance, the surf pounding the cliffs below.

  I stared at the phone. If Friar Tom wanted more publicity, why didn’t he call?

  I was fried but felt too guilty to sleep. Sometime after midnight, I drifted off anyway.

  The phone jolted me awake.

  The clock read a quarter past three. I’d been asleep for more than three hours. I had trouble waking. I was aware the phone had already rung several times. I lunged for it, not wanting to miss Friar Tom. I hadn’t noticed Torpedo dozing on my lap, and he scampered off across the Mexican tiles.

  “Hello!” I said when I finally reached the phone.

  “Hey, I’m standing on top of the Sycuan sign out on Dehesa.”

  It was the Billboard Bandit. He was spraying graffiti on a billboard for a local casino called Sycuan, run by the Sycuan tribe of Indians. My anger roused me fully from my sleep.

  “Are you that self absorbed?” I seethed. “A serial killer has my wife. I don’t have time to cover your little crusade just now!”

  “Whoa, Ty,” he said. “Friar Tom’s the reason I called.”

  I caught my breath. “What about him?”

  “I think I saw him.”

  “Where?”

  “Here, not more than a minute ago. I’m tagging this sign. A van pulls up, parks behind some bushes. Guy gets out, opens the back door, drags something heavy out, drops it on the ground, and drives off. I’m climbing down now for a look.”

  Before the Billboard Bandit could confirm my worst fears, I hung up and sprinted out the door.

  CHAPTER 90

  It was a thirty-minute drive from Point Loma out to Dehesa Road. I made it in fifteen.

  My tires squealed as I rounded the corners of the twisting East County roads. I crossed the dividing line and nearly slammed into oncoming traffic.

  I cursed myself as I drove. I’d made the ultimate mistake. I’d gotten too close to Friar Tom and scared him. Now he had killed Jordan.

  Tears filled my eyes as I wondered how I was ever going to tell Heather.

  I saw the Sycuan billboard ahead. The Bandit had turned the lights back on so I could find him. Across the casino sign, he had spray-painted: A FOOL AND HIS MONEY ARE SOON PARTED.

  I pulled to the shoulder and slammed t
he brakes. The car fishtailed and kicked up a cloud of dust. I jumped from the car and ran around the large bushes at the base of the sign. It was dark, but I could make out the Bandit. He was kneeling over a body.

  “Oh, no!” I cried.

  “Ty,” he called, “it’s not her.”

  I stopped in my tracks. Relief replaced anguish. Jordan was still alive.

  I stumbled over the rough ground toward the body.

  “You hung up before I had a chance to tell you,” the Bandit said. “It’s a man.”

  I dropped to my knees. The Bandit shined a flashlight on the dead male.

  “It’s Dick Cameron,” I said.

  “That TV guy?”

  “Yeah, he was working on a reality-TV show called The Torture Chamber.”

  “Well, this isn’t make-believe, that’s for sure.”

  Cameron’s nude body was riddled with deep puncture wounds. He was also missing his tongue.

  “He left this,” the Bandit said, passing me a note.

  I took the flashlight from him and shined it on the note. Even in poor light, the bizarre scrawl was unmistakable.

  It read: West, time to get back to work.

  “Did you get a look at him?” I said.

  “Nah, it was too dark.”

  “How about the van?”

  “A Ford, maybe. I’d guess beige, but it was so dark out it could have been white.”

  “Not much to go on,” I said.

  The Bandit smiled. “This may help,” he said, handing me a scrap from a paper bag.

  I shined the beam on the brown paper and read: AUTODFE.

  “His taillights lit up when he started the van. I got the plate number with these.” He held up the binoculars he uses to look out for cops while he tags billboards.

  “Perfect.”

  He shrugged. “Nothing any other civic minded outlaw wouldn’t do.”

  I knew what I had to do next.

  “I’m calling the police. You’d better scram. Unless you want the cops to catch Friar Tom and the notorious Billboard Bandit on the same night.”

  CHAPTER 91

  “This better be good,” Walton said after the police dispatcher woke him at home and he returned my call.

  “Dick Cameron turned up,” I said. “Friar Tom dumped his body beneath the Sycuan billboard on Dehesa Road about a half hour ago.”

  “A half hour, how’d you find out so fast?”

  “Got tipped off.” I knew Walton’s next question, so I added, “An anonymous source.”

  “Don’t touch anything, we’re on our way.”

  “No, wait,” I said. “Send a crime team, but you and your men meet me at police headquarters in twenty minutes.”

  “This is my case, West. I’ve got to pick up his trail before it goes cold.”

  “Detective, I know who Friar Tom is. I’m going to take you to him.” Walton had already dismissed Shard as a suspect, so I left it at that.

  “There’s no time for games, West. If you have information on a suspect, spill it now. You’re interfering with a police investigation.”

  “I’ll see you in twenty minutes,” I said and hung up.

  I speeded back to town to police headquarters. Walton paced in the lobby, puffing a cigarette beneath a NO SMOKING sign.

  “Okay, West, I’m all ears,” he said, dropping the cigarette to the floor and crushing it with his toe. “What do you got?”

  “I’ll give you Friar Tom if you’ll let me sit in on the interrogation.”

  “You’re shameless, West. Your wife’s life is in peril, and you’re angling for an exclusive.”

  “I don’t care about the story. Look, I know a lot about this guy. You need my help. I’m handing you the biggest collar of your career. All I want is to be there when you make it.”

  Walton hesitated.

  “Detective, we don’t have much time. Friar Tom knows I’m onto him. He could be tying up loose ends as we speak.”

  “We need probable cause.”

  “Here’s your probable cause,” I said, handing him the latest note from Friar Tom. “He left this with Dick Cameron’s body. Wake up a judge and get a warrant.”

  Walton studied the scrawl on the note. “Okay, so who is he?”

  I handed Walton the scrap of paper with the license plate number. “My source got the plate. Run it through the system and you’ll find a white Ford Econoline van registered to Luther Shard.”

  Walton tensed up. The color left his face. “I—um,” he stammered.

  “Don’t worry about that now, Detective,” I said. “Shard had everyone fooled.” I didn’t add except for me. No point rubbing it in.

  Walton had a warrant within fifteen minutes.

  His team assembled in the parking lot. We headed out in four unmarked cars. I rode with Walton.

  On the drive to Clairemont, I told him everything else I had on Shard: the second job with Pacific Catering, the Little League ring, the red and yellow HomeMart apron reflected in Tiffany Samples’ contact lens. I reminded him that Shard lived around the corner from Scott and Lisa Johnson, where Friar Tom had dumped Darcy McLaren. I also explained the medieval torture tie-in to Shard’s vanity license plate—AUTODFE.

  The caravan parked on Moultrie, several houses down from Shard’s. It was four in the morning. The street was calm. The cops closed the vehicle doors quietly.

  Walton handed me a Kevlar vest. “I’m not going to have a dead reporter on my hands. Stay back until we take him down. You come in only after we’ve secured the place. Got it?”

  I nodded yes.

  Walton and his men moved swiftly but silently down the sidewalk. The only noise was the distant sound of traffic from the I-5.

  I watched the cops disappear into the shadows.

  I couldn’t just stand there, so I followed about ten yards behind.

  At Shard’s driveway, Walton turned around and saw me. He motioned at me angrily to back off. I shook my head.

  I hoped I had done the right thing calling the police. Shard wasn’t the type to be taken alive. He had nothing left to lose. If he heard the cops coming, he’d kill himself—after he killed Jordan.

  Be sound asleep, Friar Tom. Be in the midst of the deepest sleep of your sorry life.

  Walton’s team crept stealthily up the driveway. There were no lights on inside. No motion.

  Walton signaled two of his men to circle around the house. The rest of them climbed the concrete steps to the front door.

  I’d soon know Jordan’s fate.

  The calm was broken by the rude sound of the battering ram smashing the door. The police rushed through in an instant.

  I waited for gunfire, but there was only the sound of the cops swarming efficiently through the house.

  I stood on the sidewalk, watching flashlight beams sweep the living room. I saw two cops dash by an upstairs window, heading deeper into the house.

  All the lights in the house came on. Not a single shot was fired.

  The wait was excruciating. What was taking so long? Had they found Jordan? Was she alive?

  I stood in the driveway, listening for her voice. I didn’t hear her.

  Walton appeared on the landing. He looked disappointed. He gestured at me to come in.

  I started up the stairs, afraid of what I might find.

  CHAPTER 92

  I swiftly scanned the living room.

  “She’s not here,” Walton said in a low voice. “Now wait over here on the couch.”

  Luther Shard sat at the dining room table. He wore a white terry cloth bathrobe. He looked bewildered but calm. The police had stormed his house and he hadn’t broken a sweat.

  “This is some kind of mistake,” he told the two cops seated at the table. He smiled. He sounded friendly, reasonable.

  He looked in my direction.

  “Hey, I know you,” he said. “I mixed you some paint. What are you doing here?”

  I jumped up from the couch. “Don’t play dumb! Where is she?”
/>
  “Shut up, West!” Walton barked.

  “West?” Shard said. “I thought I recognized you. You’re that reporter whose wife was kidnapped by Friar Tom.”

  I started across the room for Shard. “Where is she?” I demanded. “What have you done with her?”

  Walton caught me by my arm.

  “West!” he snapped. “If you can’t control yourself, I’ll cuff you and put you in the back of my car. Now sit down!”

  He pushed me to the sofa.

  I studied the room. There was a framed photo of Shard with his daughter and late wife resting on an end table. A seascape painting hung above the fireplace. The top shelf of the china cabinet held delicate figurines. This didn’t look like the house of a deranged killer.

  Shard stood from the table and approached Walton. “Detective, I know you’re doing your best to catch this lunatic, but you’ve got the wrong man.”

  “Mr. Shard, I remind you that we have a warrant to search these premises,” Walton said, guiding Shard back to the table. “Now you can either cooperate and stay out of the way, or I’ll have you arrested.”

  “I don’t know what my rights are,” Shard said with a nervous chuckle. “I guess I should call my attorney.”

  “Only if you’ve got something to hide,” Walton said.

  Shard hesitated, looked around. He shook his head no.

  Walton nodded at his men. Four cops resumed a search of the house—two upstairs, two down.

  I heard doors and drawers open and close. Shard’s face remained calm.

  “Mr. Shard,” Walton said, “do you own a white 2008 Ford Econoline van?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “In my garage.”

  “Have you driven it this evening?”

  “Not since I got home from work, a little past six.”

  Walton checked his watch. “So your van hasn’t moved from the garage for the last ten hours?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We’re going to need to search it.”

  “If it will help clean this mess up any faster, be my guest.”

  “The keys?” Walton said.

  Shard started to stand.