“Read it to me.”
“It says, Hello, San Diego,” Rudy began. “It’s been awhile. Have you missed me? I’ve missed you. Get ready to make up for lost time. By week’s end, two more heretics will confess their sins in my torture chamber.”
“Anything else?” I said.
“Uh, yeah, Ty, there is, actually.”
“Well?”
“Um, there’s a postscript.”
“Come on, Rudy, I’m in a hurry here. Read it.”
“Okay,” he said with a sigh. “It says, P.S.: Tyler West, you were warned.”
CHAPTER 97
Friar Tom’s letter promised two more victims. Perhaps he meant Jordan and me if I didn’t keep my end of the bargain.
It was too late to pacify him with news stories. I had to show the police that Luther Shard was Friar Tom.
There had to be a way.
As soon as I hung up with Rudy, my phone rang again.
“This is Neal Hollinger,” said the man on the other end. “What do you want with Leah?”
I told him the case I was working on. He had read about the torture slayings in the Seattle paper.
“But you got the wrong Leah Hollinger,” he said. “Leah doesn’t have a brother.”
“No, I’m sure she’s the one I’m looking for. Her name and your address were in her father’s will.”
“Will? What will?”
I told him.
“Damn, I always knew that woman was hiding something.”
“Leah is your wife I take it?”
“Ex.”
My lead was slipping away.
“How much did she inherit?” Hollinger asked.
“About fifty thousand.”
“Damn.”
“Are you still in touch with her?”
“I haven’t heard from her in four years, not since the divorce. She took off to go find herself. Landed in Sedona, Arizona, the touchy-feely capital of the Southwest. I think I might still have the address where I mailed the divorce papers. Hold on.”
He came back on the line and gave me an address in Sedona. “Don’t get your hopes up. Leah was never the type to stay in one place too long. She’s probably moved on. But, hey, if you do find her, tell her she owes me twenty-five grand.”
I called directory assistance for Arizona. There were no Leah or L. Hollingers listed in Sedona. No Shards, either.
I launched the reverse directory app and got the phone number corresponding to the address that Neal Hollinger gave me.
I dialed the number for the Sedona address. A woman answered. It wasn’t Leah.
She had never heard of Leah Hollinger, but she had only moved there seven months ago.
I returned to the reverse directory and got phone numbers for other addresses on the same street. Someone in that neighborhood had to know Shard’s sister.
“I’m trying to locate a woman who lived on your block,” I told a woman who answered the third number I dialed. “Her name is Leah Hollinger.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know anybody by that name.”
“How about Leah Shard?”
“No, it doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Please, ma’am, it’s important. Try to remember. The woman I’m looking for would have moved to Sedona from Seattle about four years ago. She’d be about forty-eight, forty-nine now.”
“That sounds like Crystal.”
“Crystal?”
“Crystal Waters. We studied Buddhism together. A gentle soul. I really miss her.”
“She left Sedona?”
“Last year. Just disappeared. I wasn’t surprised. I always sensed she was running from something. She never talked about her past. A lot of old emotional scars, I gathered. So many people come here to renew themselves.”
“Any idea where she went?”
“California maybe. She talked about opening her own aromatherapy shop there someday.”
I searched the official Web site for the State of California and learned that aromatherapy shops didn’t need a state-issued business license. They were licensed through the counties. This wasn’t going to be easy. California has fifty-eight counties.
I searched each county’s Web site for new business applications filed within the last year. I started with Alameda County and worked alphabetically down the list toward Yuba County. It took all night.
Early in the morning, I reached the Web site for San Diego County.
Leah Shard had come home again. Almost. She owned a business called Aura Works. It was in Borrego Springs, ninety minutes east of San Diego.
CHAPTER 98
I descended the twisting S22 county road into Borrego Springs, a desert oasis ringed by craggy mountains traversed by bighorn sheep. There’s one traffic light, one market, one saloon and one aromatherapy shop.
I found Aura Works on the west side of town. The store was in the front half of an adobe house. Wind chimes in the shapes of coyotes sounded as I opened the door. Flyers advertising yoga classes and massage treatments fluttered on a bulletin board. Incense and candles burned.
A woman looked up from a book and smiled serenely from behind the counter.
“Leah Shard?” I said.
Her beatific look vanished.
“No, Crystal Waters.”
“But you were born with the name Leah Shard, am I right?”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“I’m Tyler West. I’m a reporter from San Diego. I’m here to ask you about Luther.”
She didn’t speak.
“I don’t mean to intrude on your privacy, Ms. Waters. But I desperately need some information on your brother.”
I let the request hang in the air with the incense.
“I haven’t seen Luther in years,” she finally said. “What do you want with him?”
“He’s the one committing the Friar Tom slayings in San Diego.”
She stared at me without flinching.
“You don’t look surprised,” I said.
She found her place in her book and said, “I don’t think I have anything to say to you.”
“Ms. Waters, please. Luther has already killed eight people. He’s kidnapped my wife. The police have ruled him out as a suspect. Unless I can give them a reason to take another look at him, my wife will be the next to die.”
She turned a page in her book, but I could tell she wasn’t reading.
I took a step closer.
“Ms. Waters…Crystal,” I said softly. “I know you can help me. Please, help me stop Luther.”
She looked up from her book. Tears welled in her eyes. “I always knew this would happen. Or something like it.”
I took the last few steps to the counter and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“I heard about a serial killer,” she said, weeping. “I don’t read the papers or watch TV, but I heard talk in the store. And when I heard the talk, I wondered if Luther still lived in San Diego. I almost picked up the phone and called him. But I didn’t want to know any more. I didn’t want to find out that this Friar Tom was my own brother.”
Tears streamed down her face.
“What made you think it might be Luther?” I said.
“Violence begets violence.”
“Your father?”
She nodded. “He was known around town as jolly Mr. Fixit, the lovable Little League coach. But at home he was a brute. He’d slap my mother and me around when he got drunk, but he saved the worst for Luther.”
“But your father wasn’t a killer.”
“No, he just made you want to become one yourself. Luther was the sweetest kid you could imagine. But after years of my father’s abuse, he developed a cruel streak. He took his payback out on smaller kids and defenseless animals. My father literally beat that boy into a beast.”
She sniffled and reached for a tissue. “I got out as soon as I could. I ran away when I was fifteen. I should’ve taken Luther with me, but I was afraid of him.”
“Did he ever hurt y
ou?”
“No, but it was only a matter of time. I could see it in his eyes. He had the same look my father had when he drank and came at me.”
“If you were estranged, why did your father leave you half the hardware store?”
“Guilt, I guess. But I didn’t want anything from him. I signed my share over to Luther.”
“Did Luther ever collect or build torture devices as a child, or show an interest in torture?”
“No, but I see now that he was headed that way. Once, when we were kids, I had some friends over. Our parents were out for the evening, and we played Spin the Bottle. My friend Becky Griffin had a crush on Luther. She kept spinning the bottle until it stopped on him. Luther said he’d take his kiss from Becky in our parents’ bedroom closet. We all giggled as they went upstairs. It was quiet until Becky suddenly ran down, crying and screaming. Luther had gagged her with one of my mother’s scarves and bit her breast. He nearly chewed her nipple off.”
“When was the last time you spoke with your brother?” I said.
“Not since our father died. He always seemed to be so angry. He scared me. I never told him I’d moved and changed my name.”
She looked at me and sobbed. “Eight murders?”
I nodded.
“My God.”
“The part I can’t figure out about Luther is the letters,” I said.
“What letters?” she said, dabbing her eyes.
I remembered that she didn’t read the papers.
“Friar Tom has sent handwritten letters to the media,” I said. “The police obtained writing samples from Luther. They had him write both left-handed and right-handed, but the samples don’t match Friar Tom’s letters. I can’t figure out how he’s disguising his handwriting.”
“I can explain the letters,” she said.
CHAPTER 99
“He’s writing them with his mouth.”
“His mouth?” I asked incredulously.
“He learned how to write with his mouth when he was little,” Crystal Waters said.
“But why?”
“My father’s Little League team lost a game. He got drunk, came home and beat Luther. He hit him so hard, he knocked him down the basement stairs. Luther was only six. It was a terrible fall. He broke a hip, a leg and both arms.”
She shuddered at the memory.
“He was confined to bed for eight months, his body locked in casts. He just lay there and cried, but not too loud. If Daddy ever heard him, he’d give him another beating.”
I fought the urge to rush her through her story.
“I felt so sorry for him. He was helpless. We were close then, before Luther turned bad. He missed most of first grade, so I’d rush home after school and tutor him. I’d read aloud to him, then I got him to read on his own while I turned the pages. He was proud he was learning to read. But he was sad because the kids in school were learning how to write, and he couldn’t because of the casts on his arms.”
“So you taught him to write with his mouth,” I said.
She nodded. “I got this idea of placing a pencil in Luther’s mouth and holding a pad in front of his face. We started with simple tasks—lines and circles—then we moved on to tic-tac-toe. A few weeks later, I got him doing his ABCs. His scrawl was almost illegible. Sometimes he’d get so frustrated, he’d spit the pencil out. But I wouldn’t let him quit, and by the end of those eight months he knew how to write with his mouth.”
She smiled at the memory.
“Luther was so grateful. One day while I was at school, he made me a card, thanking me for teaching him how to write. He used crayons, doodling these little pictures of a sun and trees and grass on the outside, and on the inside he wrote how much he loved me.”
She stood from her chair behind the counter and said, “Excuse me.” She parted a bead curtain and entered the living area behind her store.
She returned with an old scrapbook that had a tattered black cover.
“Of happier times,” she said, setting the scrapbook on the counter.
I walked around so I could view the scrapbook with her.
She slowly turned the pages. There were numerous photos of Crystal and Luther as children. One of Luther gleefully unwrapping a Christmas present. Another of him dressed as a clown for Halloween. Another of him riding a bike with training wheels.
He didn’t look like the kid who’d grow up to become Friar Tom.
Waters cried. “He was such a sweet little boy…until Daddy…”
She reached for the box of tissues and said, “Sorry.”
She turned the page. “Here’s the card I was telling you about.”
She removed the homemade card from a plastic sheath and handed it to me.
I stared at the card. It was a piece of white construction paper folded in two. Luther had used green and yellow crayons to draw the trees, grass and sun. There were some patches of blue crayon to signify the sky. I ran my fingers across the film of waxy crayon.
It was a happy card drawn by a happy boy.
I opened the card and looked at the message that was scrawled in red crayon. Goose bumps sprang from my arms.
“Look familiar?” Waters said.
I nodded, too stunned to speak.
She broke down sobbing.
“Goddamn you, Daddy,” she wailed.
CHAPTER 100
I ran from Crystal Waters’ shop, her brother’s homemade greeting card in hand.
I started the car and dialed Detective Walton.
“He wrote the letters with his mouth!” I said when Walton answered.
“West, is that you?”
“That’s why his handwriting samples didn’t match,” I said, pulling onto Borrego Springs’ main drag.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Luther Shard. He wrote the Friar Tom letters with a pen in his mouth.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Walton yelled. “We’ve cleared Shard as a suspect. Furthermore, you’ll be arrested if you go anywhere near him. Now leave me the hell alone and let me get back to work.”
I zoomed up the twisting, mountain road. Borrego Springs was already a postage stamp in my mirror. I braked when I caught up to an RV. I honked, but the driver wouldn’t pull over. I passed him on a blind curve.
“Detective, hear me out,” I pleaded. “Shard has a sister. I just spoke with her. She taught him how to write with his mouth.”
“Not that I believe any of this, West, but even if I did, there’s nothing I can do now. The captain pulled me from the case and busted me down to Vice. So find another sucker to peddle your lies to.”
“Who’s got the case?”
“Just stay out of it, West.”
“Who’s got the case?”
There was a pause, then Walton said, “Loretti.”
Detective Sal Loretti despised me more than Walton. Besides, I had lost all credibility with SDPD. Nobody there was going to touch anything I handed him after he saw what happened to Walton.
“Detective, I’m sorry about your demotion. I know how this looks. You think I burned you. But what possible reason do I have to make this up? Look, I’ve something Shard wrote with his mouth as a kid. The writing is identical to the letters Friar Tom sent to the media. You’ve got to believe me.”
Walton didn’t say a word. He didn’t hang up, either.
“Luther Shard is Friar Tom,” I said. “Pick him up before he kills again.”
“Like I said, West, it’s no longer my case.”
“You know Loretti won’t listen to me. Just trust me this one last time. Be the hero, get your old job back. What have you got to lose?”
“My pension for starters.”
“I’m begging you.”
There was silence.
“Bring the writing sample in and I’ll have a look at it,” he finally said. “That’s all I can do.”
“No, that won’t work! I’m way out in East County. Shard could kill Jordan in the time it takes m
e to get this to you. You’ve got to pick him up now.”
“That’s not gonna happen, West.”
“Look, if you don’t believe me, at least check Shard’s story about his daughter.”
“What about it?”
“He said he moved her into the Peterson Center, up in L.A.”
“Yeah, so?”
“There is no Peterson Center in L.A,” I said. “Check it out. All it takes is a phone call. At least do that.”
There was a long pause.
“I don’t know, West. Fool me once—”
The connection went dead. The screen on my phone read: “No service.”
I dropped the phone next to the card on the seat and floored it.
CHAPTER 101
Twenty minutes later, I blew by the tiny Mission Santa Ysabel and its Indian burial ground.
Reception returned to my phone. I rang Walton and got his voice mail. When he hadn’t called back five minutes later, I tried again.
I kept getting his voice mail as I raced through the Santa Teresa Valley, then Ramona. Each time there was no answer, I drove a little faster. How could he be so callous?
I was on the outskirts of Poway when my phone rang.
Walton sounded excited. “You were right about Shard.”
“You’ve arrested him?”
I thought I had lost the connection again, but it was only a pause.
“No. He was called into work today, but he didn’t show. He wasn’t at home either. He’s cleared out.”
I groaned.
“We found a grave in his backyard. Female victim…”
I was doing ninety, but everything around me slowed down. I pictured the first time I met Jordan in Washington, D.C. I had never seen such a beautiful woman. She gave me her heart and I broke it. How did I ever walk away from her love? If I hadn’t left her twelve years ago, she’d still be alive.
“…No positive I.D. yet, but from the size of the body, it’s probably his daughter.”
“What was that last part?” I said, returning my focus to the phone.
“I said, it looks like Shard killed his daughter. You were right.”
The body wasn’t Jordan’s! I was overjoyed, then dejected. Jordan was still missing—and now so was her abductor.
The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery Page 23
