Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (26 page)

Laura said, “Did you know Clint's son?”

“No. I wouldn't want to either.”

“I heard he died.”

Bob Dodge pointed in the direction of the steel outbuilding. “Just past the machine shed, you'll find what's left of that kid's meth lab. Had to be eight or nine years ago, before my time. Apparently, when it blew, it was a sight to see. Lit up the sky for miles.”

On their way to check out the ruins of the meth lab, they took a look at the machine shed: cavernous and mostly empty except for a high-cabbed green tractor with dirty windows and a harrow in the far corner. There were a few oil spots on the concrete floor and some bins that held long-neglected pesticide and plant food.

The meth lab itself had been in a trailer. One portion was intact, the long, curved back section of a travel trailer from a long-ago era. The rest was a blasted-out mess. Broken glass, twisted pieces of equipment, torn upholstery, trash, lots of stuff blackened beyond recognition. Jaime called out to her from forty yards away, held up a charred beaker, intact. “Do you believe this?”

He approached her through the thick desert growth. “Probably didn't feel anything if there was an explosion.” He paused, pushed at a coally, burn-braided timber with the toe of his shoe—Laura thought it might have come from an attached ramada.

“At least it was quick. Wasn't like he burned to death. Jesus. That's one way I wouldn't want to go.”

“Me neither,” Laura said.

“Die in my sleep when I'm ninety, in perfect health—that's what I want,” Jaime said as they walked back to the car. “What scares you the most? About dying?”

“Airplane crash,” Laura said. “Knowing we were going down. That scares me.”

“They say the best way is drowning. It's not supposed to be bad at all.” Jaime detouring toward the big steel farm building.

Laura picking up the pace to keep up. “Eating a blowfish isn't such a bad idea.”

“Oh yeah, the Japanese delicacy. I heard eating it gives you the giggles. Either it tastes really good, you have a good laugh, and you live, or it tastes really good, you have a good laugh, and you die. Speaking of dead, look at these.”

Jaime motioned to a double row of small graves near the machine shed, piled with rocks to keep away the coyotes. The makeshift cemetery was spread out under a cottonwood tree, with rocks demarcating the area. Wooden crosses on all the tiny graves, most of the dirt dried into the ground like glue. Some of the crosses were old and weathered; they had no names or the names had faded away. But Laura could read some: Inky, Spoof, Jethro, Pearl, Mooch, Clem, Gaffy, Gypsy, Slick, and Trouper.

“An animal hoarder,” Jaime said. “Usually it's middle-aged or old women do that.”

“You've seriously got to stop profiling everybody.”

Jaime shrugged, but she could tell he was hurt. She shouldn't have said that. She'd broken an unspoken barrier. You didn't tell another cop what to do. You especially didn't tell another cop from another agency what to do. Unless you were an asshole, like someone from the FBI.

She'd say she was sorry, but that would only compound the gaffe. She'd make it up another time, another way.

________

They were held up on 77 due to an accident; a car had caught fire. The car was a blackened chassis by the side of the road. Laura's former
compadres
from the Highway Patrol were out in force directing traffic; 77 was down to one lane and stopped dead while the tow truck jockeyed for position. Laura used the time to call in an Attempt to Locate on Robert Heywood with a description of the truck, registration, and license number.

When they got to the Department of Public Safety building, the sun had dipped down below the mountains, leaving a rust-colored stain.

“I'm beat,” Jaime said. “I'm gonna head home.” He fiddled with the lanyard with his ID photo, the one she'd had issued to him so he could get into the DPS building. Said, “Why do you think Heywood came back here?”

Laura had been thinking about that. “Maybe he and Clinton Purvis are good friends. Could be as simple as that.”

“It isn't, though.”

“No, I don't think so.”

“You think he really is looking to make a big score?”

“Sounds like it.”

But what kind of score? That, they didn't know.

Laura walked him out and went to her own car.

She could go home. She was tired enough. But she didn't want to. Fortunately, her mare was fed along with the other horses on the Bosque Escondido, so there were no worries there.

It was a clear night, and there would be a full moon tonight.

A good night for a drive.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

As Laura approached Steve Lawson's cabin, she saw two people on the porch. Lawson and the woman who must own the SUV parked behind the little purple PT Cruiser.

Interesting little car, the Cruiser. Kind of funky. Laura thought it went with Steve Lawson pretty well.

The woman walked out to the SUV and stopped at the driver's side, looking at Laura. She was in Laura's lights. A small, slender woman with a cloud of dark hair, wearing a casual black sweater-tights combo that would look good in New York. Fashionable boots. Warm for Tucson, but nice up here. Hard to see her features, but Laura guessed they were attractive. The woman stared into the headlights, and Laura doused them. Got out.

The woman waited for Laura to come to her. Laura noticed that Steve Lawson had come around the car, and the two of them watched her approach.

“Detective Cardinal,” Steve said. “I'd like you to meet my—” He paused. “Julie DeSabato. Jules, this is the detective I was telling you about.”

They shook hands all around.

“I was just leaving,” said Julie, but she didn't open her car door. Laura felt she was being scrutinized, and the scrutiny wasn't friendly.

There was tension here.

Steve seemed nervous. No, more like shaken. He looked pale—almost haggard—and there was a restless quality in the way he swayed from foot to foot.

“Detective Cardinal,” Steve Lawson said. “What brings you up here?”

“I wanted you to look at some photos.”

“You have a suspect? Already?”

Julie DeSabato said, “I've really got to go.” She tipped up on her toes, and gave Steve Lawson a peck on the lips. “Think about what I said,” she told him. Then she got into the SUV and gunned the engine.

Laura and Steve stepped back as she drove away.

“My ex-wife,” Lawson said. “Why don't we go inside?”

They clumped up onto the porch. Jake met them, tail wagging. Laura reached down to pet him.

“We're looking at a man who was here during that time,” Laura said. “Would you take a look at these photos and tell me if you've seen any of these men before?”

Lawson took the sheet from her. His sleeves were rolled up, and there was a nasty-looking scar on his right arm. He walked under the kitchen light, looked at the sheet for three or four seconds. Passed it back to her. “I'm sorry. Nobody looks familiar.”

Laura held on to the sheet. “It's all right. I'm asking a lot of people.”

“So you think he was up here at the time Jenny Carmichael disappeared?”

“Really, at this point, we don't know.” Laura scanned the room. Saw the dishes in the drainboard, a wine bottle and glasses on the counter. A Ouija board sitting on a footstool, the footstool the same ugly Early American material as the chairs and couches.

Lawson looked at her. “
Spaghetti con vongole
,” he said.

“What?”

“Our dinner. Spaghetti with clam sauce.”

“And after dinner, a turn at the Ouija board.”

“Do you … Wee-gee?” Steve Lawson said softly. He seemed to be saying this to himself.

“Excuse me?”

“It's just a line from—“

“
I Love Lucy
.”

“How'd you know that?”

“When I was a kid it used to be on KTTU when I was getting ready for school.”

“You seem young for that.”

“Not for syndication. They had reruns of that and
The Andy Griffith Show
.
The Andy Griffith Show
was my favorite.”

“What a coincidence,” Steve said. “That's mine, too. The early ones, before they went to color. That and
The Dick Van Dyke Show
.”

“I hated
The Honeymooners
.”

His eyes widened. “So do I.”

“You don't, by any chance, like
The Three Stooges?”

“Hate 'em.”

“
Really?
I thought men loved
The Three Stooges
.”

“We aren't all part of one huge body. Some of us have the capability of original thought.”

“Why don't you like the
Stooges
?”

“I'm not big on physical humor.” He leaned against the kitchen counter and folded his arms. “There was a study that said men and women see humor differently.”

“Here it comes.”

“No, seriously. It could explain the whole
Three Stooges
phenomenon. Men like their humor broad. They like slapstick. Not all men—Jake and I are the exception. Women like their humor more subtle. They're willing to take it a few more steps to get to a satisfying punch line.” He caught her skeptical look. “You think I'm flattering you, am I right?”

“You're being downright obsequious.”

“Now that's a big word.”

“It means—”

“I know what it means. You think I'm an egg-sucking dog.” He cocked his head. “You think I'm trying to flatter you out of suspecting me of murder?”

It surprised her, his coming out with it like that. “You think that? That I see you as a suspect?”

“I'd think you weren't doing your job if you didn't.”

“You're right about that.” She paused, kept her voice neutral. “Everybody's a suspect.”

“If I was a guilty man, I'd be shaking in my boots.”

Laura glanced pointedly at his legs. “No shaking there.”

“Nope.”

“So according to your theory, you must be innocent.”

“Diogenes can give it up, retire, live off his stocks. Take that trip to New Zealand he's always been harping about.”

“Diogenes?”

“The guy with the lamp.”

“You're the last honest man?”

“If the shoe fits.”

“Does it?”

They stood there, the silence stretching, having gone from easy banter to awkwardness. Laura liked him—okay, be honest, she liked him a
lot
—but there was still the feeling he wasn't telling her everything he knew. She doubted it had anything to do with Jenny Carmichael's death. Unlike Jaime, she didn't believe Steve Lawson killed Jenny.

She could be wrong, though.

“If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to go over your statement again.”

“Fine with me. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? I think I have tea.”

“Water's fine.” Laura pulled the tape recorder out of her purse and set it down on the coffee table. She sat down on one of the Early American chairs.

Steve excused himself, went down the hallway, ostensibly to the bathroom.

While he was gone, Laura got up and walked across the room so her back was to the window. This was another precaution she had schooled herself in, something that had become a habit. Any time someone left the room, she went to a different spot. She'd learned this from her old mentor, Frank Entwistle. If someone—someone like Sean Grady, for instance—planned an attack on her, he'd find her in a different place. He wouldn't have the upper hand.

She heard a medicine cabinet open and close. She heard the rattle of pills in a plastic bottle, heard the faucet turn on, fill up a glass, and then turn off again. Heard him set the glass down with a crack.