Don’t Talk to Strangers: A Novel (36 page)

“He’s a bastard,” Raymond growled, impatient. “Turns out we made good use of that
reporter, though. Getting the word out and all.” That was a matter of opinion. Generally
the less the media knows about an investigation, the faster it can move. Raymond grinned
at me. “Who knew you came with your own camera crew? I gotta remember to wear my makeup
from now on. Maybe you can get me an interview.”

“Lay off, Rob,” Brolin warned.

“No harm done. Just a little friendly fun.” He scraped his chair back, smoothed the
front of his shirt. “Gotta hit the head.”

“Hurry up,” Brolin told him, as he left the room. She slipped into a tan blazer, which
fell nicely over the duty holster on her hip. “There are a few farmhouses down on
Cottonwood Road. Maybe someone saw a vehicle. We had a robbery this morning and we’re
late getting started. And I want Skylar’s friends on the record as soon as school’s
out before their parents intervene too. Everyone was upset last night. Hard to get
clear information.”

“What can I do?” I asked. “Anyone canvass the shops on Main Street?”

“We had a patrol unit check in with everyone,” Brolin said.

“I could speak with Skylar’s friends,” I offered. I didn’t want Brolin to scare them
to death.

“We got that,” Brolin said. “Rob’s good with kids.”

“Sure,” I said. Hard to imagine Raymond was good with anyone. But I had seen a different
side of him when he spoke with Hayley Barbour at their home. He was a father, after
all, and none of us were. Or was Brolin a parent too? I hadn’t asked. I tried to visualize
her as a nurturer of children, a sacrificer, a listener, a giggler, a chauffeur. “Then
I’m free to talk to the teacher again,” I said decisively. I grabbed my bag. “Hey,
Raymond,” I called. “Got a sec?”

Detective Rob Raymond gave me a curious look when I caught up to him and pulled the
pink diary from my bag. “I promised I’d get this back to you.”

He looked at it, then lifted heavy lids to me. He was part Raymond Burr, part J. Edgar
Hoover, big, dark, all attitude. I knew a bully when I saw one.

“Your son and Skylar were having a flirtation,” I told him. “I thought you’d like
to know before you turn the diary in.”

“What are you talking about, Street?”

“Some kissing. She cut band practice to see him. Pretty tame stuff.”

Raymond took the diary. The pink journal looked odd in his meaty hands. A photo tumbled
out and hit the floor faceup, Skylar in a photo
booth—four frames, two happy girls. Raymond bent down and picked it up. He looked
at it for a minute. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “I thought the little fucker was
gay.”

“He never mentioned her?” I asked.

“Kid’s seventeen. He doesn’t tell me shit.”

“Your son may have information about Skylar we need. The Skylar he knew had a crush
on an older boy and cut classes to see him. Did she have other behaviors that put
her at risk? Maybe he knows something else about her.”

“You read the diary, you tell me about her behaviors,” Raymond said. “And you stay
the fuck away from my kid.”

“You know how honest she was with her diary?” I shot back. “She didn’t even mention
Robbie was in high school. It would be a big deal to a middle school girl, a seventeen-year-old
boy giving her attention. Barbour told me his wife read Skylar’s diary last year.
Skylar found out. She didn’t trust they wouldn’t find it again. She was editing.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Raymond rasped. “And I’ll check this into evidence.” He walked
away.

“You’re welcome,” I called. He didn’t turn.

I returned to the war room and told Meltzer and Brolin why I’d left to speak with
Raymond.

“Robbie’s a good kid,” Meltzer said. “Rob should be the one to talk to him first.
This has got to be hard on all the kids.”

Raymond came back in. He was still holding the diary. Meltzer picked up a marker and
wrote on the board. “This is Deputy Ferrell’s number. Put it in your devices. And
answer when she calls, please. She’ll forward credible tips from the tip lines and
keep us up to date. Let’s communicate with her hourly. Everyone checks in with a progress
report.”

We all keyed in the deputy’s number. Raymond’s phone played a minuet, not the ringtone
choice I’d imagine for him. He listened, said, “Okay, thanks,” and disconnected. “Another
goddamn dead end. That was Lamar Bailey’s parole officer. He wasn’t at group last
night because he’s been in the hospital since yesterday morning.”

33

Her chains heaved and clanged behind her. She groped out into the blackness like a
mime. For a moment, he watched the frantic, ghostly image through his goggles. He
closed his eyes, remembered the hood slamming down on her, her back arching under
the weight and pain, the latch slicing through fabric and biting into skin and tissue.
He’d practiced hitting that brace with his elbow and getting out of the way. If he
had thought of that with the Cochran girl, he wouldn’t have had to punch her in the
throat. He’d almost killed her before he got her in the car.

“Skylar,” he said playfully. “I can see you. Hey, I brought you some food. My favorite.
Bologna and mustard. And water. You want some water?”

She pressed against the wall, drew her knees up to her chest. The chains attached
to her ankle cuffs pulled taut. He saw her flinch when her bloody back touched the
wall, and he felt the warm, primitive stirrings of an erection.

“Stay away from me!”

The stained twin mattress on the floor reeked of urine and mold. He pushed the goggles
to the top of his head, struck the wheel on a Bic lighter, and lit a kerosene lantern.
It filled the room with sharp, acrid fumes.

She squinted up through the light she’d been deprived of for hours.
“Why are you doing this to me?”

He lifted the orange bucket next to the mattress. He was wearing thin surgical gloves.
He always wore them in this room. “Use this. I don’t want to have to clean up after
you.”

“Let me go, you freak!”

“Just for that I should take the sandwich back,” he told her calmly, and watched her
for a minute before he reached in the bag he’d brought the food in for a spiral notebook
and a pen. “But since you’re new here, I’m going to give you a second chance because
I know you’re hungry.”

“Fuck you,” she spat. Strands of golden hair stuck to her face. She’d started to cry
again. She’d been crying a lot. It was annoying. But her eyes didn’t let him down.
They were angry and defiant. He liked that.

“I want you to do something for me, Skylar.” He picked up an axe and carried it in
one hand, dropped the notebook and pen on the stinking mattress in front of her. “Write
exactly what I tell you to write. Go off script even once and I’ll cut your fucking
head off.”

Ken Meltzer rubbed his forehead as if he was getting my headache. We were driving
toward Daniel Tray’s house. “I’m going to stop and grab us something to eat,” he told
me. “I’m running on empty. How about you?”

“Yes. Hotel breakfast was awful.” Except for the Krispy Kremes I didn’t mention.

“They have breakfast over there? I thought breakfast was walking down the street to
the diner.”

“I changed hotels,” I said. “I haven’t had time to tell you. When I got back last
night, my room had been broken into.”

“What was missing? Did you call anyone? Did anyone make a report? Why the hell didn’t
you call me?”

“I’d left you standing on the road at the scene. It seemed a little
more important than my missing mascara,” I told him. “My valuables were in the safe,
which was undisturbed. They either didn’t know it was there or they were interrupted.”

“No more notes?” he asked. His voice was sharp.

“No.”

He started to say something. My phone bleated. Neil. Meltzer got out of the SUV, headed
into the diner.

“I need you to run Daniel Tray’s background for me, financials if you can get them,
and medical,” I told him. People could hide a lot, but a psychiatric history has a
way of stripping off the varnish. “I want to know if he owns the house or any other
properties. See if you can get a floor plan from the deed records. Any expenses on
hardware, renovations, stuff like that.”

“Will do,” Neil said.

“Also, expenses leading up to January seventeenth of this year and yesterday when
the third victim disappeared,” I told him. “Anything that looks different, even a
spike in his grocery bill.” Melinda and Tracy had suffered malnutrition but he’d have
to feed them something. He needed to keep them hydrated. Bottled water cost money.
“See if you can zoom in on satellite now and tell me about his place.”

I waited while Neil found Tray’s address. “Looks like a frame house, two, maybe three
bedrooms,” he said. “I’ll have the deed in a sec. One level. Might have a crawl space
or a cellar. I don’t see basement windows. Shed out back. Pretty small. Insecure.
Aluminum. Any reason the sheriff’s department isn’t running him?”

“They did,” I said. “Tray has no criminal record. But his alibi is soft and he freaked
out when I interviewed him. The kids I talked to called him
touchy-feely
. But these kids were also lying to me and I don’t know why. He taught the second
and third victim. Melinda and Skylar were pulling away from the band and his classes.
I want to know if it’s because their band teacher is creepy. The team here didn’t
find any obvious ties to the town of Silas where the first victim lived. Look again,
Neil. Maybe Tray has family or friends there.”

“Eleven years ago she disappeared, right?” Neil said. “You sound totally stressed,
by the way.”

“Ya think? Skylar’s been in some hole and it’s only going to get worse for her. We
need to cross this teacher off our list if he’s innocent and move on. I need it, like,
now
.”

I clicked off and sat there for a couple of minutes thinking about the office, about
what was waiting for me when I returned, feeling that churning dread in the pit of
my stomach. Meltzer got in with two take-out cartons and two Styrofoam cups with straws.
He handed me one of each, put his cup between his legs in the driver’s seat and his
carton on the flat console between the seats. “Not the healthiest thing on the menu,
but I’ve become a connoisseur of foods that can be eaten with one hand while driving.”

“I’ve never known a cop that didn’t eat fast and one-handed,” I said. He smiled.

Most times, it’s just basic manners not to speak with food in your mouth. But there
are occasions when you need to talk and eat and keep moving.

“Both Melinda and Skylar were disengaging from band and, according to Mr. Tray, from
outside activities with classmates. Why?”

“I don’t remember Bryant and Molly saying anything about problems with Melinda other
than normal teenage stuff. Little fights about where she could go and for how long.
Nothing huge. That reminds me. I got a text from Molly this morning. It’s in my phone.
Have a look.”

I washed a bite of fish down with sweet tea, wiped my fingers on a paper napkin, and
picked up the sheriff’s iPhone. He didn’t know I’d held it in my hand once before
and ached to read his messages from Molly. I’d been suspicious. It’s in my nature.
I clicked on the message icon.
We know you’re trying as hard as you can and we love you for it. Come by the lanes
for a bite and a beer if you need a pick-me-up. Bring the new partner
. I read the two messages above it. Same vein.

I swallowed down some guilt with the tea. “Molly seemed really nice.”

He nodded. “She helped take care of Mom while we were looking for a full-time caretaker.
That’s how I got to know them.”

“Bryant was nice too, despite the fact that he called me an Oriental and made a remark
about gay men making him uncomfortable.” I put
the sheriff’s phone down and grabbed a potato wedge from the box in my lap.

“Bryant’s a product of his upbringing. Poor. No formal education, a macho, country-boy
culture. Probably never crossed the state line. If you’re not growing hair on your
knuckles, Bryant thinks you’re gay.” Meltzer chuckled. “If he actually knew a gay
man, or knew that he knew a gay man, his opinion would change. He’s thick sometimes
but he has a good heart.”

“He says Tray’s gay,” I said. “Not that it matters for our purposes.”

“Except that your average serial is usually heterosexual.”

“You stay up reading the serial handbook last night?” I smiled at him. My phone jiggled
and lit up. I looked at the message. “It’s from my partner. Says Tray’s on an antidepressant
called Zoloft. It’s for mild depression. I think half my family has been on it at
some point in their life.”

“Really?” Meltzer asked. He picked up a potato from his box. “Depressed family?”

“Clinically,” I answered. “Fortunately, I’m adopted.” I looked at my phone. “My partner
says no spikes in Tray’s spending around the abduction dates. Neil’s looking at social
media and possible contacts to Silas. Tray owns his house, no other properties. Pays
his bills online, gives about ten percent of his income to a couple of ministries,
your pastor’s church, for one, and a television ministry.”