Palindrome (22 page)

The sheriff looked at the arm again. "The way it's mangled above the elbow, it looks like it was torn off. Those are teeth marks, I reckon." Liz did not look. "You have any idea who it belonged to?" the sheriff asked.

"I think it's my cousin, Jimmy Weathers," Germaine said. "That's his watch, anyway, or one like his."

"Are you sure it's his arm?"

"Well, I never expected to have to identify him by his arm," Germaine admitted, "But the hair on it is light brown, like Jimmy's. I last saw him this morning; he was going around the island with an architect."

"And where's the architect?" the sheriff asked.

"I hadn't thought about that," Germaine said.

Hamish Drummond came out the back door. "Hi, Bob, what's going on?" he asked. The sheriff nodded toward the back of the Jeep.

Hamish looked at the arm, grimaced, and turned away. "That's Jimmy's wristwatch, isn't it?" Germaine asked him.

"Could be. Who found it?"

"I did," Liz said. "I hope the hell it was at Lake Whitney," Hamish said.

"It was. On the dike thing where the road goes."

"Good. I'd hate to think that old gator was roaming around down here somewhere."

Angus Drummond pulled up in his jeep, followed closely by Buck Moses in his battered pickup. "I saw the helicopter," he said. "What's going on?"

Everybody filled Angus in. "Did you see any of the rest of him?" Angus asked Liz, not unkindly. "No. I just wanted to get out of there before I saw that alligator again."

"Again?" Hamish asked. "You saw him before?"

Liz nodded. "I was taking pictures down there one day, and he came after me. I was lucky to get away; as it was, he ate half my tripod."

"How big was he?" Angus asked.

"He looked gigantic," Liz said, "but mostly, I just saw jaws."

"He twenty foot," Buck said.

"How long since you saw him, Buck?" Angus asked.

"'Bout a year. He twenty foot if he a inch."

"I believe it," Angus said.

"I believe it, too," the sheriff replied, "after looking at that arm." Angus and Buck had a look at the arm, and the sheriff gingerly removed the wristwatch from the wrist.

"Nothing engraved on it," he said, "but there'll be a serial number, and if he registered the warranty when he bought it, they'll have a record. I can check it with a phone call."

He dropped it into a plastic bag and zipped it shut, then he wrapped up the arm again. "I want to refrigerate this while we look at your lake." 

Germaine shuddered. "All right, come on with me, and I'll get you a cooler and some ice."

She stopped. "Somebody's got to call Jimmy's wife, too, I guess. Any volunteers?"

Nobody said anything. "I didn't think so." Germaine sighed, then started for the house again.

"Could that arm belong to anybody but Jimmy?" Angus asked when they had gone.

"Germaine says everybody else is accounted for except the architect who was with Jimmy."

It occurred to Liz that one other person was not accounted for: Keir Drummond. She thought about the arm. It could be Keir's, she realized with a thump of her heart; still, she had never seen him wear a gold Rolex wristwatch, and she didn't think he was the sort who would choose something that gaudy.

"Well, it's the first man we've lost to Goliath," Angus said. "God only knows how many of my deer he's taken."

Germaine returned with a cooler of ice, the sheriff, and another man. "This is Henry Rhinehart, Jimmy's architect," she said. "He just got back to the inn. I've told him what happened."

Rhinehart looked stunned. "Where did you last see Jimmy Weathers?" the sheriff asked.

"We were walking the beach," he said, "and then Jimmy wanted to look at something else; he didn't say what. He headed off through the dunes, toward the interior of the island."

"How long ago was that?" Rhinehart looked at his watch.

"About three hours. It took me that long to walk back to the inn.

"How much light we got left?" the sheriff asked nobody in particular.

Buck Moses looked at the sun. "'Bout five hours," he said.

"Well, I guess we'd better go up there and see if we can find the rest of him. Maybe we'll get a shot at that gator, too."

"You ain't gon' find that boy," Buck Moses said.

The sheriff seemed to understand that he was in the presence of a backwoods expert. "Why not?"

"That gator, he gon' take his kill and stick it up under something'—a log, a rock—something' under the water. You put folks to looking' in the water, and the gator gon' get somebody else."

"Well, I'm not anxious to get in the water with a twenty-footer, myself," the sheriff said.

"You're not going to kill that animal, either," Angus said firmly.

"That's a man-eater, Mr. Drummond," the sheriff replied. "I've got to do something about him if I can."

"That's my gator, and he's on my island. He was doing what comes naturally, and nobody's going to shoot him for it."

"Ain't no gator gon' come out of the water to get at a man," Buck said. "He got Jimmy, Jimmy was in the water."

"Why would he go in the water?" the architect asked.

"Dunno," Buck replied. "But the gator ain't gon' come out of the water at him."

"He had a go at me," Liz piped up.

"Was you in the water?" Buck asked. "Yes," she admitted. "About knee deep."

"You lucky you got a knee," Buck said.

"Don't I know it."

"All right, all right," the sheriff said. "What I need is as many armed men as I can get—rifles and shotguns with double-aught buckshot."

"I don't want anybody shooting at that gator," Angus said. "Well, we've got to have a look for the rest of this body, and I'm not going to ask any man to do that unarmed," the sheriff said.

"Just as long as you understand that nobody shoots at him unless he's in danger," Angus said, "then I'll scare up some weapons. An hour later, the group arrived at the end of the dike.

"Allz right, Miz Barwick," the sheriff said, "where did you find the arm?" Liz pointed.

"There; about fifty feet along the dike, sticking out of the grass. I only saw the hand and the wrist."

"I want two men right behind me," he said and pumped the lever-action thirty-thirty in his hands. The sheriff walked slowly out on the dike, keeping his attention on the high grass along the lakeshore, followed by Buck Moses and the architect, both clutching shotguns.

"He ain't gon' get you, sheriff!" Buck cackled. He seemed vastly amused by these white men.

"About there," Liz called, and the group stopped. The sheriff moved the grass aside with his rifle barrel. "There's some blood, a lot of blood." All three men began poking in the grass with their rifles.

"Looka here!" Buck called out. "Gator done dragged him in right here!"

"Miz Barwick," the sheriff called, "could you come out here with your camera?" Liz took a deep breath and walked along the dike to where they stood. "Please photograph the bloody place, here, where you found the arm, and that spot in the mud, there, where it looks like something was dragged into the water."

Liz did as she was told, but she was trembling. A few minutes later they regrouped at the cars.

"I don't know what the hell else to do," the sheriff said, mopping his brow. "I never had one of these on my hands before."

"Ain't nothing else you can do," Buck said. "Gator done gone with Jimmy. We ain't gon' see Jimmy no more."

"You don't think that gator would come out of the water to get a man, then, Buck?" the sheriff asked.

"Naw, sir," Buck said. "Jimmy done gone in the water." He paused.

"Or somebody done put him in there." Everybody turned and looked at Buck.

"Who would hate Jimmy enough to do that?" the architect asked.

Buck grinned toothlessly. "Jes' about ever'body, I reckon."

CHAPTER 33

Lee Williams was in his captain's office at nine sharp on Monday morning.

He watched as his boss hung up his coat, moved around his desk, and flopped into his chair. "So, how was your weekend?" Haynes asked.

"Could hardly have been better." Williams grinned.

"Tell me."

"I've got a witness who will place Bake Ramsey at the Beverly Hills Hotel, in the Polo Lounge at the same moment Schaefer was there, and who will testify that Ramsey had time to drown Schaefer in the pool, and that he returned to his table in the lounge wet."

"How good is your witness?"

"She's an LAPD cop who was Ramsey's date that night." Haynes smiled broadly.

"That's pretty good."

"It's gold plated. Not only that, but the headwaiter will testify that Ramsey left the lounge by the same route that Schaefer did."

"Even better. Did he sneak out of his hotel, past the staff?"

"He did. Guests can easily come and go through the garage without being seen."

"Good work. It's not good enough for an indictment, though, unless LA Homicide can tie in a witness at the pool or some physical evidence, and they're not going to get extradition without an indictment."

"That's okay with me; I want to bust him here, first."

"How you going to do that?"

"I think I can break his alibi for the Ferguson killings; it's just going to take me a little more time."

"What do you need?"

"I want the crime lab to go over the Ferguson residence one more time. I'm going to need a print, or some fibers, or something."

Haynes nodded. "I'll take care of that. Anything else?"

"Just the time to work on his girlfriend. She's his alibi. I want to find the ex-wife, too, the Barwick woman. I'm going to need her."

"You working on much else?"

"Nothing pressing."

"Okay, take all the time you need, just give me a good bust."

"Yes, sir!"

When Williams left the office, his lungs seemed too full of air. This was a glory bust; he'd nail Ramsey for the Fergusons and hand him to LAPD on a platter, and everybody in the city would know his name. It was a career-making case, and he wasn't going to blow it. He picked up the phone and called Mary Alice Taylor's home number. "This is Mary Alice," a honeyed voice said. "I'm not home, but you know I want to hear from you, so leave a message at the tone."

"Mary Alice, this is Lee Williams. It's important that you and I talk right away, so call me, please." He left all three numbers. "And, Mary Alice, it's important that you don't see Bake or talk to him before we get together. This is for your own good, believe me."

When by the end of the day she hadn't called, he waited until half past eight o'clock and went to Piedmont Hospital. When he got off the elevator on her floor, there was another nurse at Mary Alice's station.

"Excuse me," he said, "but is Mary Alice Taylor working another station tonight?"

"You'll have to see the supervisor," the woman said. "I'll call her for you."

Williams showed his badge to the supervisor. "She didn't turn up for work tonight," the nurse said, "and she wasn't at home when I called."

"Is that unusual for Mary Alice?" Williams asked.

"Yes, it is, but my assumption is that she probably went out of town for the weekend and didn't get back. I expect I'll hear from her in due course, and she'll certainly hear from me."

"I'd like to have her home address, please," he said. "It'll save tracking it down through the phone company." The nurse went to a card file and wrote down the address for him. "Do you know what kind of car she drives?"

"No."

"It's a Volkswagen," the substitute nurse said.

"A Rabbit?"

"No, a bigger one."

"Jetta?"

"That's right. A white one. She bought it new this summer."

Williams thanked her and left. Mary Alice Taylor lived in a large, attractive apartment development in the northwest quadrant of the city.

Williams flashed his badge to the security guard at the gate and asked directions to her apartment. It was a ground-floor one-bedroomer on a nice street, and the living-room lights were on. He rang the bell, and, when there was no answer, he walked through a flower bed and looked through the window into the lighted room. Nothing seemed out of order. He returned to the guardhouse and asked for the head of security; shortly, a black woman in uniform turned up. He showed his badge. "I'm looking for Mary Alice Taylor in 198. She hasn't turned up at work, and there's reason to be worried about her."

"You'll need a warrant, if you want to go into her place," the woman said.

"Listen, lady, this is a serious matter, and I don't need a warrant if you'll let me in. I'm not going to disturb the place, I just need to look inside."

"Oh, all right, but I'll have to go with you."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

The door yielded to a pass key, and Williams was inside. The apartment was well furnished—it looked as though she'd lived there for a long time, had bought things for the place. In the kitchen there was an open jar of spaghetti sauce on the counter with a film of mold over it, and a pan waiting on the stove. He explored further, not knowing what he might find. The bedroom door was closed. Williams turned the knob by grasping it close to the door. It was dark inside; he felt for a switch, and an overhead light came on. The bedspread and top sheet were on the floor, and there was a spot of dried blood in the middle of the bed. Not enough for a shooting or stabbing, he reckoned. He looked more closely and saw something else. The blood was from sex, he was sure, and the other thing looked like semen. He could see three pubic hairs on the sheet. He had a quick look around the room, then checked the bathroom.

There was a used hand towel on the sink, and it was bloody. He went back into the living room, took out his notebook, and rewound her answering machine. "Hey, sugar," Bake Ramsey's voice said. "It's Friday about noon. We're off to Miami this afternoon, so I don't guess I'll see you until the first of the week. I'm sorry about last night; I'll make it up to you."

"Miss Taylor, this is Tiffany's; your wristwatch is ready, if you'd like to call for it."

"Hi, it's Bake. It's Saturday morning, and I thought I'd catch you at home. I hope you're not still mad. I'm in Miami; please call me." He left a number. The next message was William's own. Then: "Miss Taylor, it's the duty supervisor at Piedmont Hospital. It's eight-twenty Monday night, and you were due here at eight. Please call in as soon as possible."