Ultimate Thriller Box Set - Crouch Blake - Страница 116
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“Thanks for your help,” she said.
He ignored her and went inside. The place was empty except for a woman he presumed worked there sitting at a table by the window. He asked her pleasantly if Misty Patin was there.
“She just left.”
“Could I get an address?”
The woman parted the curtain and then looked at him. “She’s still there. Didn’t you see her when you came in?”
He felt his heart drop, the funny feeling you get when an elevator goes way up. “I didn’t see anybody.”
The woman looked at him as if he were crazy. She shoved back the curtain again and pointed. “She’s right out there.”
He leaned down and peered out. He saw the hype and her kid across the street. A brand-new navy pickup pulled up. The driver looked like an Eskimo, although that wasn’t what they were called around here. He wore a tank top, shorts and flip flops. A little girl, maybe ten years old, hopped out right behind him. She was blond and didn’t look anything like the man or the kid in the stroller. The girl ran down to the rocky beach and threw rocks into the water.
Looking at her, he knew it was true.
She looked just like Misty.
He felt a wall in his gut give way, the dam he had carefully built up over the years. He could feel something dark and toxic seep out, the resentment and anger that had always been there, but that he had managed to control up until now.
The woman said, “You better hurry if you want to catch her.”
“Shut up.”
“No one talks to me like that. You’d better go, mister—“
“Shut the fuck up or I’ll make you shut up, you dried-up old hag!”
For a second, there was quiet. Then the woman catapulted to her feet, her chair screeching across the floor and ricocheting against the wall as she made a beeline for the kitchen. “I’m calling the police. Nobody talks to me like that.”
He ignored her, pulling the curtain back and staring out the window. He watched the little girl, the delight she took in picking out stones and hurling them into the bay. She was fruit of the poisoned tree, but still innocent, like an angel. The way Misty used to be.
He let the curtain drop. Looking down, he realized he had crumpled the paper bag holding his recent purchases. Also, he’d forgotten to take a breath mint.
It didn’t matter now.
10
When Laura arrived at the Bisbee Police Department the next morning, she looked for Buddy Holland, but he wasn’t at his desk. She’d planned to divide up the phone work, but that didn’t look like it would happen now.
Chief Ducotte had scrounged up a phone and phone jack for her computer and given her the table by the window where they kept the coffee urn. Fortunately, the coffee urn had been moved so she’d have some privacy. She sat down in the folding metal chair, thinking that if she sat here very long, her back would be in agony. She scanned the list of contacts at other law enforcement agencies in the state. Might as well get started.
In the next hour, she reached close to a dozen of her counterparts in other jurisdictions, but none of them had encountered a similar crime.
She knew this wasn’t this guy’s first kill. Dressing the victim up was the killer’s signature—something he’d do every time. It would have taken him time and practice to perfect a ritual like this one. Unfortunately, looking for one piece of information in the staggering wave of data from VICAP was a daunting task. VICAP—the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program—was only as good as the agencies entering the data. The FBI database cross-referenced violent crimes nationwide, but participation was voluntary and many smaller jurisdictions didn’t use the system.
Somebody standing at her elbow— Officer Noone. “Ma’am?”
She straightened up, felt a twinge in her back. Smiled at him.
“I heard you were looking for a saxophone player? My sister dated a guy who played the sax. I heard he lived on the Gulch, so I asked around and I found him. Name’s Jeeter."
“Jeeter who?”
“Just Jeeter.”
Through the window Laura saw Buddy Holland and Officer Duffy approaching from the parking lot. Duffy looked pissed. Laura got the impression that was a permanent condition.
As Buddy approached the window, he ducked his head to look in at her. No, not at her. He was looking at himself.
“Jeeter doesn’t have a last name?” Laura asked Noone.
“Apparently not, ma’am.” He looked chastened, as if Jeeter’s not having a last name was a reflection on him.
“What’s Jeeter’s story?” she asked.
“Guess you could say he’s a night owl. Itinerant musician, takes up the slack with odd jobs.”
Laura glanced at Buddy Holland’s desk, at a faded but eye-catching photo of Buddy, a woman, and a little girl posing in front of Old Faithful at Yellowstone. “Did Jeeter happen to look out his window?” Laura asked Noone.
“As a matter of fact he did. He likes to sit next to an open window when he plays. Feel the night air."
“Great for his neighbors. Did he see anything?”
His broad handsome face lit up—what he had been building up to. “He saw a motor home.” He consulted his memo pad. “He noticed it for a couple of reasons. Almost nobody drives down the Gulch in the wee hours of the morning. And this motor home went up and back on the Gulch twice.”
“What time was that?”
“Between two and three.”
“Did he notice anything else?”
“Just that it went slow. He wasn’t thinking make, size, anything—just noticed it driving down the street a couple of times. Here’s his number.” He handed her a While You Were Out slip, the name Jeeter, his phone number and address neatly printed on it.
He lingered.
“Yes?” Wishing he would go so she could think.
“If there’s anything else I can do—“
She glanced at her watch, thinking she should get out to see the Parris family soon or she’d have to wait until early afternoon—and that would be cutting it close. She was meeting the owner of the Cooger & Dark shop at eleven and the autopsy in Sierra Vista was at four. She looked at Noone. “As a matter of fact there is something you can do. I want you to look up motor homes—you can do it on the Internet. Go back at least fifteen years and get a representative sample. Go show them to Jeeter and see if anything jogs his memory.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that right now.”
“When does your shift end?”
“Three o’clock, but—“
“You’d better ask your sergeant if he can spare you; otherwise, it will have to wait.”
After he was gone, she thought about the motor home. Saw it in her mind’s eye, cruising down the Gulch in the early hours of the morning.
It made sense. A motor home was an ideal vehicle for a sexual predator. Portable, self-contained, window shades so no one could see in.
She glanced at Buddy Holland’s desk. He must have come in and gone again while she was talking to Noone. She powered down her computer and went looking for him, catching Officer Danehill at the coffee urn, which had been set up outside the bathroom. “Have you seen Buddy?”
“Buddy? He just left.”
Laura decided that could be a good thing. She doubted Buddy would be a help and might be a hindrance. She headed up canyon to see Jessica’s parents.
David and Linda Parris lived on West Boulevard, the last house before vacant land. Three hundred yards up, West Boulevard bottomed out in a hairpin turn before slanting up the mountain. According to Laura’s map, this road, old Route 80, switchbacked up to the top and then down again to connect up with the main highway on the other side of Mule Pass.
On the left side of the road just before the hairpin turn were a couple of houses. It might be worth talking to the owners of those houses, to find out if they saw anything. She’d do that after her interview with the family.
It was going on nine in the morning. She’d debated calling first, but decided it was better to just show up. In her job, Laura always looked for the upper hand with everyone—victim or perpetrator—so she could get a better read on the personalities involved.
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