Lucky Thirteen (8 page)

8

Determined Detective

R
a
y
and Chris arrived back at the police station. At his desk, Ray reached in the drawer and pulled out his Amidrine. At his partner’s frown he quipped, “I need my meds!”

She laughed
. He took a pill with a swig from the bottled water on his desk. Looking at Chris, he winked and joked, “At least, I don’t hear voices.”

“True
. But you do have another headache, huh?”

“One’s trying to come on, but I’m determined to stop it before it starts
.” He guzzled more water. “That’s beside the point. This case just gets more bizarre by the day. We really need to find this guy. Apparently, he’s some lunatic who’s heard God tell him to do it.”

“I don’t think so,”
Chris argued. “I’m not at all sure this guy has hurt anybody.” They heard footsteps. “There’s Baker with the search warrant. You gonna fall asleep on me?”

“No way
! Somebody with my face is making me look really bad.
Allons
.”

Chris
shook her head with a wry smile as she was beginning to pick up some of Ray’s Cajun French. He laughed lightly at her expression, his dimples showing, the right one a bit deeper than the left. “Let’s go. I wanna know what makes this guy tick.”

♣♣♣

After a short drive, Ray and Chris arrived at a modest, but classy, neighborhood of relative
ly new townhouses. Inside the suspect’s home, it was apparent he probably had not been there in a while. They walked through just looking around at first. Molding dishes sat in the sink. Chris opened the refrigerator. “Oh!” she gasped, closing it fast. “The stench. It smells like sour milk and rotten bologna.”

 
Ray sighed. “The rest of the house is spotless except for a thin layer of dust.” The living room contained a sofa, a recliner, and a fine entertainment center with tables that matched. Two barstools stood at the bar which separated the kitchen from the dining area. A glass and black wrought iron dinette set with four chairs filled the dining room. The only decorations in the house were a pen and ink drawing of a medieval castle hung over the fireplace and an oil painting of a Victorian village on the wall between the two windows in the dining room. Ray continued his observation. “Orderly. Not cramped.”

Chris agreed with a nod
. “Yes, he seems to be uncomplicated. It makes me wonder about his mindset.”

“How?”

“Getting his meds the way he did. He seems to be coming to his senses.”

They walked through the rest of the house
. The bed in what appeared to be the master bedroom was made. Chris opened the closet. “His clothes are hung neatly. Suits and silk ties. He’s a professional.”

Ray opened the drawers of the dresser and chest of drawers
. “These things are sorted by color. Boxer briefs, just like me.” He laughed. “There’s a drawer of socks missing a mate. I keep mine in a clothes basket.” He opened the valet on top of the dresser. “Must make
real good
money. Onyx and diamond cuff links and tie tack. Money clip with about fifty bucks.” He picked up a watch. “It’s a Rolex!”

Chris agreed
. “Yeah, he must make
good
money. Nice suits—nothing off the rack. One’s an
Armani
.”

Ray whistled his appreciation.
The FBI agent crossed the hall while Ray checked the bathroom. The second bedroom appeared to serve as an office and home gym. It contained a desk with state-of-the art computer equipment, a drafting table, a treadmill, and a Bowflex. Several finished and unfinished blueprints lay on the table. All were initialed “R. G.”

The downstairs half
-bath appeared never to be touched while the upstairs bathroom, which could be entered from either bedroom, had everything in compulsive order; toiletries were arranged methodically.

“He’s been here,”
Ray said.

Chris stuck her head in the door
. “How do you know?”

The cop
pointed to two small clean circles in the dusty countertop of the upstairs bathroom. “But he didn’t stay. He came long enough to get his medication bottles. That’s where they sat. Where has he been staying?”

“I don’t know,”
Chris said. “I think we need to get a description of him to all the local pharmacies.”

“Yeah.
” Ray nodded. “I can just walk in and say, ‘Hey, I look just like a mass murderer. Take my picture.’”

Chris
snickered in spite of the seriousness of the situation. “We still need to get it out there.”

“I know.”

“Then,” Chris continued, motioning Ray into the office/gym, “we need to go to Bertram and Associates. That’s the name on the blueprints.” She fingered one of them. “It appears our whacko is a brilliant architect. I would give my right arm to live in this house.”

“It
is
nice,” agreed Ray, looking over Chris’s shoulder. Returning to the bathroom, he bagged the toiletries to obtain fingerprints and DNA and confiscated the computer from the office.

As they left the house, the next door neighbor and her daughter
arrived home. The little girl squealed in delight, “Mr. Ray!” and flung her arms around Ray’s legs. The mother seemed pleased, too, to see the man she thought was her neighbor.

“Mr. Gautier, it’s nice to have you home again
. You’ve been gone such a long time that I thought you had moved.” The woman eyed Ray’s holster and gun strangely.

Ray
looked at Chris and shook his head in disbelief. Juggling the computer, he reached into his pocket and took out his badge. He extended his hand and politely introduced himself. “Hello, ma’am. I’m Detective Raiford Reynolds, and this is my partner, Agent Christine Milovich. It’s come to my attention in the last few days that I resemble your neighbor.”

“No,”
the woman countered. “You look
just
like him. I’m Carol Johnson, and this is my daughter, Sheena.”

Ray patted the little girl on the head
. “Hi. I’m sorry I’m not your friend.” He turned back to Carol. “We are, however, looking for Mr. Gautier. What can you tell us about him?”

“Is he in some kind of trouble?” asked Mrs. Johnson with a dubious expression.

“We’re not sure yet. We need to talk to him though.”

“I find it hard to believe Ray Gautier could be in any kind of trouble
.” Mrs. Johnson shook her head. “He’s a very nice man. He lives alone and is very quiet.”

Ray asked, “Are you familiar with his friends or family?”

“Not really. I never met his family. Some Fridays he goes out, but he never has company unless a courier delivers something to his house. He’s an architect.”

“Would you call him a loner?”

“He’s not antisocial, just quiet. Last C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S he built a D-O-L-L-H-O-U-S-E for S-A-N-T-A.” She glanced down at her daughter who looked about three. “My husband’s in Iraq, and Ray has been great helping with Sheena.”

“What about his background?”
Chris asked.

“
He had a rough Christmas season himself. His mother who lived in Lake Charles died unexpectedly shortly after Christmas. He took it pretty hard.”

“Of course,”
Chris said. “How did that affect his demeanor?”

“
He acted a little strange sometimes after that, but I didn’t think much of it, considering his loss. He mentioned she was the only family he had.”

“Right
.” Ray noted Chris writing in a notepad when he couldn’t since he was holding the computer.

“So he has no family?”
Ray asked for confirmation.

“He had a sister
. He said Sheena reminded him of his little sister who had been killed in a car accident many years ago.”

“
Did you visit with him frequently?”

“Our conversations usually took place out here
. I’ve only been in his house once to see the blueprints for”—Carol stretched her eyes wide so as not to give away a secret to the child who looked back and forth among the adults—“He was very respectful about my being a married woman, almost old-fashioned. The only time he ever came into my house was to put together you-know-what. I offered him some eggnog, but he declined. He said he took medication that didn’t mix well with alcohol.”

“When did you last see him?”

“About two weeks ago. He left one morning, and I haven’t seen him since. When he left, it was strange that he wasn’t dressed nice like he usually dresses. He had on jeans and a sweatshirt. He usually wears suits and ties when he goes to work unless he’s going to a construction site; then, he wears jeans and a sport shirt. The only time he wears sweats or warm-ups is cool evenings when he jogs.”

“So, would you say he’s in good physical shape?” Chris questioned.

“Great shape. I know he’s run in a couple of charity marathons.”

“Did you ever hear him talking to himself
or overhear any conversations with someone else?” asked Chris.

Sheena piped up, “Mr. Ray told me sometimes he hears things other people don’t hear
. He said it was his music to create. I miss Mr. Ray. He brings me treats home from work.”

“Yes, he does, Reese’s
bars,” confirmed Carol.

“Well, thank you,”
Ray said as he fumbled to hand Mrs. Johnson his card. “If you think of anything that might help us find him or if he comes home, please, call me.”

Carol called after them, “Officers, should I keep my L-O-A-D-E-D G-U-N handy?”

“Can’t hurt,” Ray said with a curt nod.

♣♣♣

Ray and Chris took the bagged items and Ray Gautier’s computer to the police lab, and Ray started back out the door rather than heading for his office
. Chris asked, “Where are you going?”

“To Bertram and Associates.”

“Ray, it’s after eight o’clock.” She chortled. “Nobody will be there. We’ll have to go in the morning.”

“Of course,” he said
. “It’s just that this is the first real lead we’ve had.”

“I know,”
Chris agreed. “I have an idea. Let’s have dinner together, get a real night’s sleep, and I’ll meet you here at seven A.M. And I swear if you don’t go home, I’m gonna lock you up for your lunacy.”

“You would try
.” Ray agreed to Chris’s suggestion. Before he left he typed in the information he had on Raiford Gautier for the Office of Motor Vehicles. “I’ll have a printout in the morning.” He grinned, but being determined to learn more about his look-alike, Ray called his mother after he got home rather late.

♣♣♣

“Raiford Reynolds!” Dorothy Reynolds answered cheerfully
. “What are you doing calling your old folks so late?”

Ray’s father piped from the background,
“Speak for yourself.”

His mother continued, “Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure, Mom. I have to ask you something very personal.”

“Of course, honey
. What do you need?”

“Mom, did Audrey by any chance have twins?”

“Why would you ask that?”

Ray explained what was going on
.

Dorothy answered, “Honey,
honestly, I really don’t know. Father Dawler only told us your mother was named Audrey and that she had been a prostitute. He said he thought she might have been on drugs and you might have some problems because of the drugs and the fact you were premature.” Her voice took on a nostalgic twang. “But you were the most beautiful baby. You looked just like a little toy, and the only problem you’ve ever had is migraines.” She sighed. “Adoptions thirty years ago were still very private, almost secretive. You know if Dad and I had known there were two of you, we would’ve taken both. You should’ve been together if that’s what happened. Of course, the agency may have thought they were helping two couples who desperately wanted a baby. Ray, I would never suggest you abuse your powers as a detective, but you can get information civilians can’t. Look into it.

“Ray, not to change the subject, but will you be able to come this weekend?”

“I don’t know, Mom. I think Ronnie would understand my trying to keep someone alive.”

“I’m sure she would, honey
.” She took a long breath and sighed. “I’ll call you if you can’t get away.”

“Thanks—for everything
. I love you, Mom. Tell Dad I love him, too. Good night.”

Ray sat for a while thinking about his life
. The cat he had brought home with him jumped onto his lap. He rubbed Cyclops’s head absentmindedly as he thought. It had been good for the most part. He had been spoiled rotten. As his mother had said, the only physical problem he had ever had was migraines. Now, he wondered.
Is there another just like me, and maybe he has real problems stemming from poor prenatal care?