Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (25 page)

Blinked. Looked at Julie. Said, “What happened?”

“You don't remember?” Julie asked him.

“Remember what?” Steve glanced at his feet. “Why's that thing on the floor?” He rubbed his forehead. An ache starting over one eye—the beginning of a migraine? Or the wine?

Julie said, “You were talking to someone.”

“I was?” Fear, sudden and all-encompassing, punched through him. “What did I say?”

Julie repeated it for him.

Stay there. Don't come down here. Don't do that!

He rubbed the ache above his eye. “I did? I don't remember saying anything.”

“Do you remember what the Ouija board said?”

IT WILL BE BAD. He remembered that. He nodded.

“Do you have any idea what you were talking about? Who you were talking to?”

“No.”

Julie paused. “I saw something. You were staring past me at the window, and for just a minute, I thought I saw something.”

“What?”

“I don't know.”

He pressed his thumb into his eyebrow, trying to contain the pain. The pain was everything; he couldn't think. And that was when he blurted it out. “You saw the girl?”

Julie looked confused. “Who?”

He realized what he'd said. “Nobody. It's nothing. I've got a really bad headache.”

“Was somebody else here?” Julie got up and went to the window, her reflection coming to her until they joined. He watched as she shielded her eyes with both palms and stared out into the dark. “I don't see anyone.”

She turned to look at him. “Steve, what's going on?”

“Nothing's going on. I have this headache, that's all.”

“Steve, I
know
you. Who did you see? Was she peeking in through the window? Was it that detective you were telling me about?”

“No.”

“Steve … ”

He knew what was coming. Julie never gave up once she wanted to know something. She would stay at it, like a terrier after a rat. Digging, digging, digging.

He thought about it. If he was going to tell anyone, Julie was the one to tell. Hell, she
believed
in this stuff. She'd see it as something to embrace.

And, finally, someone else would know. He wouldn't have to carry this burden by himself.

He realized suddenly that this was why he had been willing to play with the Ouija board.

He had wanted her to know
.

Correction: he'd wanted
someone
to know.

And so he told her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“What happened to your sling?” Jaime asked Laura as they walked out to his car. They were on their way to see Clinton Purvis.

“I took it off.”

“Now you can't be one of the Broken Wing Sisters anymore.”

“So how's Christine doing?”

“Still on me to do a ride-along.”

“Why don't you just do it?”

“What do I do with her if I get called out to a homicide? Not to mention, her mother's still mad at me. But Chris is determined—she's gonna be a cop no matter what.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

This time Jaime drove. The air conditioner had given up completely, so they rode with the windows open. The seats offered no lumbar support. Laura finally stuck her purse between the small of her back and the seat back.

“So give me the details,” Jaime said.

“Yesterday morning, Heywood showed up at Sandy's apartment, and they ended up fighting.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So he wanted his stuff back.”

“You mean the suitcase, right? The one with his trophies.”

“Right.”

“How'd she manage to hide it from him?”

“She told him she had given all his stuff to Goodwill the
last
time he walked out on her. But I guess he saw through that. Maybe something she said when they were getting along, or at least hinted at.”

According to Detective Waddell, Heywood had flown into a rage. Laura could understand that. His wife had thrown away the most important single thing in his life. She pictured him, touching his trophies and reliving his time with the girls. If for no other reason, the fact that Sandy had denied him this pleasure made her a hero in Laura's book.

“Man, that must have been something. He must have been mad as hell about that.”

“She got a black eye, contusions on her face, and a broken wrist. He kicked her in the stomach. Choked her, too, but by then a neighbor was beating on the door and threatening to call 911.”

“So she turned the suitcase over to Waddell.”

“Not yet. She told him she's got it in a 'place of safekeeping.' She thinks Heywood's coming back.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. She's planning on using it as leverage. I don't know if it's to keep him around or because she thinks she can get some of her money back.”

“She's going to tell him she still has his trophies? That's nuts.”

“I guess she thinks she can handle him.”

“So why does Waddell think Heywood’s coming out here?”

“He told her earlier that night, when they were getting along better. He said he had some business dealings in Arizona. Maybe that's what she's hoping, that he'll finally make some money and pay her back.”

“She gonna be all right?”

“Nothing that cosmetic surgery wouldn't help.”

“Jesus, talk about getting your priorities straight,” Jaime said. “What is it with women?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, putting up with that. Getting beat up over and over again, then coming back for more.” They were passing through Catalina, which was mostly a strip of small businesses and restaurants on either side of the road against the northwest face of the Santa Catalina Mountains. The mountains managed, in this light, to look blue and gold at the same time.

Jaime said, “Don't call me a sexist. I've read all the literature. I was in sex crimes once. But I still don't get it. Somebody hurting you is somebody hurting you.”

“I don't get it either. But then I didn't grow up in a house where I was used to it. I've never known what it was like to be assaulted by a guy.”

She hadn't been assaulted by a guy until recently, she should have added. Certainly, Grady's attack qualified as an assault. “Anyway,” she said, “she told Waddell what was in the suitcase. She says she thinks those things—earrings, bracelets, underpants, barrettes—belonged to other women. But the thing is, up until this last time, she never confronted Heywood about it. If she was an angry wife, wouldn't she do that?”

“So you're saying she knew all along.”

“Kind of knew. Probably rationalized it. Kept the suitcase—hid it even—and didn't confront him. My guess is she tried not to think about what it meant. Waddell told me her favorite TV show is
CSI
.”

“Let me guess—her
second
favorite show is
Law & Order
.”

“Probably.”

“Everybody knows everything these days. Now juries are expecting DNA analysis on every case. Hey, you shoplift a whistle, we'll just get your DNA. Right.” Jaime slowed for the turn-off to Florence at Oracle Junction. Turned left onto 79. “Waddell really thinks Heywood's making a beeline for Purvis's place?”

“He doesn't have a lot of friends. Clinton Purvis could be the only one.”

Jaime shrugged. “Worth a shot, I guess. Even if he isn't out here, the guy might have heard from him. Clinton the Clown.” He laughed. “I know a lot of people who would've bought that bumper sticker in the nineties.”

They were on a two-lane road called the Pinal Pioneer Parkway. Just crossed into Pinal County. There was a lot of desert around them and the structures were few and far between. Laura liked that. The first part was a little scrubby, but the farther north they went, the more beautiful it became.

“There it is,” Jaime said and started slowing down.

The Tom Mix monument came up on the left—an iron likeness of Mix's horse, Tony, his head down in sorrow. Tom Mix, the early western movie star, crashed his convertible in the wash that crossed this road in 1940. A suitcase in the back flew forward and broke his neck. Laura had written a paper on him when she was in school after seeing the monument.

“The left or the right?” Jaime asked.

“Trudy said on the left. Those mailboxes up there. The red one.”

The mailbox said TRINIDAD RANCH LLC.

“Name of the company that owns the property?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are they?”

Laura shrugged. This didn't look like mining country. “Who knows?”

“Sit on a piece of property and do nothing. Nice work if you can get it,” Jaime said.

They bumped down the washboard road past a couple of houses. Came to a rusty metal sign riddled with bullet holes that said TRINIDAD RANCH, turned right on a narrow lane. Two ruts and a hump of dirt and weeds in the middle.

Ahead on the left, Laura saw a large metal structure. To their right, a good eighth of a mile from the steel farm building, was a turquoise and white house trailer that fronted a backyard wrapped in tall chain link. Parked in front of the trailer was a white truck.

“Heywood's truck is red,” Laura said. “Brand new Dodge Ram.”

“Unless he traded down, that's not it.”

As they drove up, a pack of dogs ran up to the chain link fence, barking. A rusted iron ramada stood on a cement foundation nearby. There was plenty of farm junk under the ramada and a couple of long tables, the kind you'd find at school cafeterias, and something under a canvas tarp. But what intrigued Laura most were the signs. Big signs, painted on wood. Beautiful calligraphy in bright, circus colors. Signs with carousel horses, Ferris wheels, clowns. A big sign affixed to the metal skin of the house trailer: a grinning clown with bright red hair like a Raggedy Ann. Old-fashioned letters spelling out THE AMAZING CLINTON THE CLOWN!

As they approached the trailer, a man let himself out the front door. He was deeply tanned, in his forties, and wore a gimme cap, a dirty white T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. When he saw them, he paused on the stoop.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“We're looking for Clinton Purvis.”

“Clint's not here right now.” The man didn't appear to be wary of them at all. He removed his cap and wiped his forehead. A white tan line halfway between his eyes and his hairline.

He introduced himself as Bob Dodge. “I come by and feed his dogs when he's gone.”

“How long's he been gone?”

“Oh, 'bout two months. He's doing a string of county fairs up north. Idaho, I think. Coeur D'Alene?” He scratched his head. “That's right.”

Laura asked, “Are you out here every day?”

“Every day God sends. Gotta feed the dogs.”

“You live near here?” Jaime asked.

“Just down the road. That first house, the red brick. Why?”

“Have you seen a red truck around here?”

“One of those new Dodge Rams? Met a friend of Clint's early this morning, as a matter of fact. He was here when I showed up to feed the dogs.”

“What time was this?”

“Oh, about seven. Looked to me like he might have spent the night here.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Just a feeling I had. His clothes looked slept in, and he didn't smell too good.”

Jaime Molina handed Dodge the six-pack of photos they were showing to everyone. Dodge pointed to Heywood's picture. “That's him.”

“You're sure?”

“Sure as I can be.”

“What did he say?”

Bob Dodge put his hat back on. “Let's see … said he was an old friend of Clint and his son. Wanted to know when he'd be back.”

“When will he be back?”

“Sometime the beginning of next week.”