Act of Betrayal (30 page)

He felt a little stab of liking for Schultz, who was obviously following orders to return and had conquered his fear to do so. That was an admirable thing to do, but it wasn’t going to earn him a pardon.

Cut propped himself up with pillows on the bed to watch TV. He didn’t like being stuck in his room, even for a little while, because the one thing he hated most to waste was time.

He consoled himself with the thought that by this time tomorrow Schultz would be dead.

P
J GOT A PUDDLE-JUMPER
flight to Dayton. It was a noisy prop plane that made two stops on what would otherwise have been a short flight. By the time she got into Dayton Municipal Airport it was almost two in the afternoon. The three segments of her flight had each been too short to serve any lunch, so even the food in the vending machines looked good.

She was met outside the security gate by an officer of the Dayton Police Department, Robert call-me-Rob Winnings. He was younger than Anita, and all smiles. She found it hard to take him seriously, and hoped that she might find an opportunity to dump him. It was nice getting a ride from the airport, though, and at least the vehicle was unmarked. The subtlety Wall had promised was getting off to a fair start.

She asked Rob to stop for lunch, so he went through the drive-up lane of a McDonald’s on the busy strip near the airport. She had noticed the signs for the Wright Brothers Memorial and the Air Force Museum, and wished it had been possible to bring Thomas on the trip. She could have dropped him off and he would have been happily occupied all day. But it certainly wasn’t a vacation, and the purpose of her trip was deadly serious.

The drive in on Interstate 75 was uneventful. She balanced her Quarter Pounder in its wrapper on her lap, and shared her fries with the driver. Farther in, Rob pointed out other sights like the fairgrounds that attracted events from nearby counties and the placid, at least in August, Great Miami River that Interstate 75 crossed. There were other rivers in town. She didn’t catch the other names, but had the impression that there must be a lot of bridges. He seemed to want to treat her like a tourist, so she obliged and asked the usual questions about what made the town distinctive. It seemed Dayton had a decidedly military flavor, with Wright-Patterson Air Force Base on the edge of town and the Air Force Institute of Technology soaking up young talent.

Darla lived just outside the city of Dayton, in a southeast suburb called Oakwood. Rob drove her past the house. It was a typical suburban ranch—brick front, two-car garage, evergreen bushes planted under the front windows, and a shade tree in the center of the lawn. Nothing distinguished it from the others on the block, and PJ was sure that was exactly what Darla had in mind. There was no car in the driveway.

“Do you know if she’s home?”

Rob slurped on the soda he’d bought for himself. “Yeah. She went to church this morning, got back around noon. No visitors. She’s alone in the house, as far as we know.”

He circled the block and pulled up to the curb a few houses away. It was just as hot and humid in Dayton as it had been in St. Louis. There was a small group of kids down the block writing with sidewalk chalk, and the buzz of a lawnmower running somewhere out of sight, but everyone else was inside staying cool. It was eerily similar to Libby’s neighborhood in Jefferson City.

PJ took a deep breath and reached for the door handle to let herself out of the car. Rob put his hand on her arm.

“I did a little reading up on this after my dad called. He works for the SLPD, you know.”

Lieutenant Wall had said he knew someone who was with the Dayton Police. Evidently that was Rob’s father. She wondered about this father-son, and more rarely, father-daughter, thing she kept running into in law enforcement. Did children so admire their parent’s line of work that they wanted to go into it themselves, or was there pressure? With more women in law enforcement, would there be a similar pattern in the future of the children of female officers entering law enforcement? The psychologist in her was stirred, and she filed away the thought. Research and publishing hadn’t been on her plate for some time, but if she got the chance, that would make an interesting long-term study.

She realized Rob was staring at her, expecting some answer. “Uh, how was that again? I’m sorry, my thoughts strayed.”

He frowned at her, and she saw a young Schultz in the making. “This isn’t a time for scattered thoughts, Dr. Gray. You’d better focus real tight on this. I said, are you carrying?”

“I don’t suppose you mean a purse?”

The frown deepened, and his brow wrinkled. “A weapon. You do have a weapon?”

“I left in a hurry,” she said. “No time to pack.”

The sarcasm flew right over his head. He reached underneath his seat and removed a handgun.

“You are qualified, right? I checked out a .38 for you, just in case you came unprepared.”

It didn’t seem like the time to admit that she had never gotten around to the weapons qualification course Wall had urged her to take.

“Uh, sure.”

She took the gun and tucked it into her purse with what she hoped were confident moves. Rob’s face reflected no suspicion. He assumed anyone referred by his dad came with built-in credibility. Sweet, but gullible.

No harm done. I’ll just return the thing when I’m finished.

“There’s another officer watching the rear of the house from the next block over. You can see right through the backyards to her back door. If you get in a bind, make a dash for either door, or fire a shot if you absolutely have to. We’ll be in there fast.”

He was starting to spook her. It had occurred to her that talking to Darla could be dangerous. She knew little about the woman, except that Darla would almost certainly be upset right off the bat that someone had been able to find her. The news reporter spiel probably wouldn’t work.

“Okay. Got it,” PJ said, building up her own confidence. She left the car and walked down the block. She had a momentary panic when Rob passed her in the car and didn’t even glance her way. She’d thought he was going to remain where he was, but he’d driven off to park somewhere less obvious.

Doubts built, and she slowed her pace, so it seemed that even the dense, humid air was keeping her from reaching the house. What made her think she could do this? Why hadn’t Wall sent someone more experienced? Someone who wasn’t thrown off balance by the weight of the gun in her purse?

Because I can do it. Because I should be the one to do this, for Leo Schultz.

She squared her shoulders and went to the front door. There was no doorbell in sight, so she knocked with all the confidence she could muster. Not long ago she had been standing on Libby Ramsey’s front steps, and that had turned out well enough.

The door opened. A thrill went through PJ when she recognized Darla. The years hadn’t treated her well, though. She was as slight as a bird, in contrast to her well-muscled mother. Thin legs stuck out from bright yellow oversize shorts. A T-shirt with an eye-catching stain in the region of Darla’s navel covered sagging breasts that swung gently without the support of a bra. She had short hair in a choppy cut that hugged her skull. Watery gray eyes peered at PJ from a face that was sunken on the lower half, the lips formless and wrinkled. She had no teeth.

PJ had to remind herself that Darla was only four years older than her own age. The woman could have passed for sixty-five or more, except for the startling bottled red color of her hair.

PJ put a welcoming smile on her face. “Mrs. Archer? Nadine Archer?” She figured she’d start out with the name Darla had assumed.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” the woman answered hesitantly. Her voice was slurred, and her chin flapped almost comically as she spoke. “You’re not selling anything, are you? If you are, I’m not interested.”

The door began to close. PJ had only moments to read the situation, and she determined that the best approach was a direct one. She stuck her foot in the rapidly narrowing space and was rewarded with a sharp pinch. The woman pushed a little harder, and seemed perplexed that her door wouldn’t close.

“My name is Penelope Lakeland. I want to talk about your brother Jeremiah,” PJ said. “May I come in?”

There was a soft intake of breath. The woman’s eyes darted across PJ’s face like the hummingbirds she’d seen that morning at the Botanical Garden. Had that been only a few hours ago? Everything was moving so fast, sliding loose like an avalanche, and Schultz was in its path.

“Did Libby send you?” Her voice was barely audible.

“No.”

The gray eyes slid shut. PJ was reminded of a rabbit pinned down by the shadow of a bird of prey.

“Come in,” she said. “Give me a few minutes to make myself presentable. You can wait inside out of the heat, though.”

“Thank you.” PJ tried to make her voice warm and supportive, and her presence in Darla’s front room nonthreatening. The gun in her purse swung against her hip as she moved, and PJ nearly yelped at the sudden surprising feel of it.

The house was stuffy, and not much cooler than the outdoors. The air-conditioner was running, because she could feel air moving, but it was just barely cool on her skin. The living room smelled sharply of cigarette smoke, even with the air-conditioning circulating the air. It reminded her of a tobacco shop PJ had once ventured into to buy a pipe for a friend from her old life in Denver. In fact, the tobacco shop had smelled better.

She gingerly seated herself on a green velvet upholstered couch. Everything in the room—the couch, the draperies, the carpet—had absorbed the smell, and there was a dirty brown film on the walls, which might have originally been white. Even the lampshade was tinted brown. There was an oil painting on one wall behind PJ, a tapestry with a Chinese scene on the adjacent wall, and a simple wooden cross hanging over the doorway to the kitchen. The painting and tapestry would have been attractive, but the colors were dulled from the smoke film. An overflowing ashtray sat on an end table next to a recliner chair that faced a small TV. Although the room was dusted, vacuumed, and uncluttered except for the ashtray, the smoky overlay gave the impression it hadn’t been cleaned in years. By the time the woman returned almost fifteen minutes later, PJ’s eyes were burning, and she was certain her clothing and hair had taken on the smell.

The personal transformation was remarkable. “Mrs. Archer” had put on beige tailored slacks and a short-sleeved blouse in crisp white. A gold cross nestled at the base of her throat. Her lower face was filled out and defined by her dentures, her short hair neatly combed, and lipstick added a little color to her face. She smiled, showing the tips of clean white teeth with no smoker’s stain. PJ registered that she was a woman who cared about her appearance even though she didn’t have much to work with. That was something PJ could relate to.

She settled into the recliner across the room and shook out a cigarette from a pack for PJ, who politely declined. Shrugging, she took the cigarette herself and lit it. She inhaled deeply and sent the smoke out her nostrils. She slid the lighter back into her pants pocket and placed the pack of cigarettes close at hand on an end table.

“Would you like something to drink? I usually have a beer after lunch.”

PJ shook her head no, then regretted it. The woman’s face flashed disappointment. PJ had missed an opportunity to connect with her.

“Well, then, what can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for Darla Ramsey,” PJ said. The direct approach had gotten her in the door, so there was no reason to change. “I have reason to believe that’s you.”

A thin stream of smoke traveled up toward the ceiling. Tension grew as PJ held onto eyes that showed no trace of the earlier indecision. PJ had indeed caught her off guard, but now all the sentries were on duty. Probably PJ had been let in the front door so that the woman could determine just how much the brash intruder knew.

“Nope,” she said with a face as closed as a turtle inside its shell. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

PJ unzipped her purse, and saw the woman tense out of the corner of her eyes. While reaching for the copy of the fax Cracker had sent, she switched on her tape recorder. She read the fax aloud. The woman smoked impassively during the recitation of bare facts about Darla’s life, then stubbed out her cigarette.

“Darla and I used to be friends,” she said. “She lived here for a while, but we had a disagreement and she moved out. I haven’t seen her in a couple of years.”

“I don’t believe you,” PJ said. “Why did you ask if Libby sent me?”

“She told me that someone named Libby might come after her some day, and if I knew what was good for me, I’d shoot her on sight.”

The words were said in a matter-of-fact way that sent shivers racing down PJ’s arms to her fingertips. She thought about the gun in her purse, and she wondered if the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped, because goosebumps were forming on her arms.

“I have Darla’s picture,” PJ said. “It’s you. There’s no doubt. I just want to talk to you. I mean you no harm.”

“You by yourself?”

“No.”
And if I was, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.

“Sure I can’t get you a beer or something?”

“No.” There were knives in the kitchen, at the very least.

Realization burst on PJ during the awkward moment that followed. It was the thing she’d been missing during the simulation. Her mind had been working on it as background processing, and had finally come up with an answer to the question that had bothered her. When PJ had played the role of Jeremiah in the simulation, the victim, Eleanor, used her balled-up fists to strike Jeremiah’s arm to get him to drop the baseball bat. The computer developed that physical action based on the postmortem injuries to Eleanor’s hands, data that PJ had entered.

Balled fists. Yet there was blood on the victim’s hands.

There were scratches on Jeremiah’s left shoulder, photographed, measured, and described in the case file. The blood clearly came from the scratches, because he had no other breaks in his skin at the time he confessed and submitted to a physical exam.