Ultimate Thriller Box Set - Crouch Blake - Страница 114
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He made it easy for her by speeding. Couldn’t blame someone with a car like that for putting on the afterburners. She stopped him on 92 just south of Tintown.
The rain was coming down hard now. Mud sucked at Duffy’s shoes as she walked up to the driver’s side, careful to approach him from an angle. Safety first. Darrell Lee James buzzed his window down.
She flashed her light on his face. It wasn’t him. This guy was fifty if he was a day.
Duffy kept her face impassive, but her disappointment was deep. She knew she should feel more than disappointed. There was a monster on the loose. The problem was she didn’t feel things deeply the way other people did, with one exception. Love was the most important emotion on earth, and that she felt in spades. Everything else paled in comparison to what was going on between her and Randall—even catching a killer. Love could be sweet torture, or a burning agony, and she couldn’t live without it.
“Sir, put both hands on the wheel where I can see them.”
“Officer, I know I was speeding—“
“Reach down with one hand and remove your wallet. No quick moves.”
Carefully, Darrell Lee James reached into his coat and produced his wallet, holding it high and away from his body. The move was automatic; he’d been caught speeding before.
“Slide the license out of your wallet, sir.”
He did so, and handed it to her, then put both his hands back on the wheel.
“Do not remove your hands from the wheel, sir. I’ll be watching.”
She took her time walking back to her unit. Since she had already run his license, she sat there for a couple minutes, looking at the photo on the seat.
Now that was a good-looking man. A total fucking creep, but good-looking.
When she felt she’d waited long enough, she got out and trudged through the mud, handed him back his license, and opened her ticket book. “I’m going to give you a warning this time. But keep to the speed limit from now on, okay?”
“Thank you, ma’am." Eyes like a Pekingese, shiny and moist in his fat pink face.
Duffy watched him pull back onto the road, driving like a little old lady.
A shame to see a Z4 being driven like that.
7
At two a.m., the clock radio came on. Laura got out of bed, pulled together what she needed, and walked through the rain-slick streets to City Park.
Ducking under the crime scene tape, she stopped on the sidewalk below the park and looked around.
The light from a sodium arc lamp tinted the street and buildings apricot. This had a flattening effect, making it harder to see. Most of Bisbee was sleeping, but she saw a few rectangles of light in the old buildings up and down the hills.
She looked up the tall flight of steps to the street above.
Laura had always thought it was most likely the bad guy had parked down here on the street and carried the girl up the stairs. She pictured him driving up around the park once to make sure no one was around. On the second pass, he parked right in front of the steps, the passenger door only a few inches from the curb and five feet from the bottom of the steps.
Were his lights on? Would he leave the engine running?
Yes to the lights, no to leaving the engine running. The best way to hide what you were doing was to act normally. Drive down the street with your lights on, park, turn off the lights along with the engine. If anyone happened to be awake and looking out the window, they would see nothing suspicious in someone parking a car. People worked night shifts.
It was doubtful that he had been seen at all. At the briefing, it came out that there were very few houses from which you could actually see the band shell. This had surprised her. There were a couple of houses right on the road facing the park, maybe one or two across the way up high on OK Street, although the trees blocked the band shell from view.
Laura stood in the street where the driver’s door would be, pantomimed walking around to the passenger side, leaning down and picking up the girl. He could be up the steps in less than five seconds.
One step into the park. Three more steps to the band shell stairs. Four steps up. Set her against the wall, clasp her hands together, stand back to look at what you’ve done. Admire your still life.
Water from rain earlier tonight dripped from the band shell arch.
Just the act of carrying Jessica up here and placing her against the wall would cause him to shed fibers, hair, skin, and some of that would stick. How would he deal with that?
Would he sweep up?
Or could he have used one of those sticky rollers, the one people used to pick up pet hair? Lab techs now preferred the sticky rollers to vacuum cleaners when they looked for trace evidence.
Water dripping from the band shell roof: tap tap tap.
Where are you tonight? Holed up in a motel or have you moved on already?
The wind rose, whipping the treetops. Their restive shadows danced on the band shell wall beside her. Rain started up, speckling the concrete.
Where are you tonight?
As if in answer, notes from an alto sax trickled down from a window somewhere up the street. Pure and sweet; a soulful, lonely sound.
All the buildings in that direction were dark. The music stopped almost as soon as it had started.
The rain came down harder, a curtain of clear beads in a doorway. Laura stood under the arch, feeling the chill draft as rain blew inward. With the rain came the stench of death.
Suddenly, she could feel him, his essence leaking out of the wet cement, the air around her. Controlled rage. A predator. For a moment, she knew what it was like to be a rabbit in the shadow of the hawk.
Was he watching her now? She looked around, but saw nothing. Imagined she heard footsteps, but it was only the rain.
The wind blew harder. The tree shadows lashed back and forth on the wall of the band shell in tortured shapes, as if they were being strangled.
She stared out at the park.
Something caught her eye in the gleam of the streetlight, wet and shiny at the edge of the stage. A matchbook.
Laura had been over every inch of this stage earlier today, and she knew the matchbook had not been there when they removed the body. The crime scene had been clean. The matchbook could belong to anyone; kids, tourists, curiosity seekers. The morbid.
Donning latex gloves, she hunkered down beside the matchbook. The words “The Copper Queen Hotel” were stamped on the front. Holding the edges with her fingertips to avoid smearing any prints, she pried it open.
On the inside cover, someone had written a message in block letters with a roller ball pen. The cardboard was so soggy it threatened to come apart in her hands, the letters starting to blur where the raindrops hit them.
Laura scooted back under the overhang. Holding the matchbook open against the concrete, she aimed her flashlight at the block letters.
CRZYGRL12.
The rain hissed, chortled, murmured.
CRZYGRL. Short for crazy girl? The twelfth in a line of crazy girls?
She caught a movement in the corner of her eye. Suddenly, a bright light shone in her face and a voice demanded, “What are you doing?”
8
Laura squinted into the glare of a MagLite.
“What are you doing?” Detective Holland repeated. The MagLite steady on her face.
She wondered if he was keeping it on her purposely. Letting her know she was the trespasser here rather than the lead on this case? It made her angry, but it also goosed her heart up a notch. What did he think—she was planting evidence?
“What’s that?” he said, motioning at her hand with the light.
She stood up and brushed off her slacks. “What are you doing here?”
“Checking on the crime scene, same as you.”
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