The Laura Cardinal Novels (23 page)

Back in her room, she couldn’t sleep. She was worried that Jerry Grimes or Mike Galaz would call her back any time. She had nothing to show for this expensive trip except a gut feeling and a digital photo that could be downloaded by anyone.

Laura turned on the light. The only thing she’d brought to read was her mother’s files on the Tucson murders and the six chapters of
Death in the Desert
. Laura removed the files from her suitcase and slid out Alice Cardinal’s unfinished manuscript, held together by an industrial-size paper clip. She realized that she never did follow up with the detective on the Julie Marr case. There had been too much going on.

Laura skimmed through the chapter on Julie Marr, still feeling it was strange—almost creepy—that her mother could write about a girl Laura used to see daily at school.

Alice Cardinal’s book echoed much of what Laura had already read in the clippings. The car used in Julie’s abduction had come from A&B Auto Wrecking. Laura’s mother had interviewed the owner, Jack Landis.

Landis told detectives that the car in question, a 1955 Chevrolet sedan, had been one of the few vehicles at the junkyard that was driveable.

Probably he took it because it was parked outside the fence, Landis said, pointing at the tall chain link fence bordering the yard full of twisted, rusty car hulks. Landis explained that he also did muffler repair and that he used the orange and white car as a loaner car to people who needed transportation while they waited.

I guess he didn’t want to face Luke and Laura, he said, nodding to the two Dobermans inside the yard.

Had the killer stolen a car just to use in commission of this vicious and brutal crime? It seems likely that he did. The Tucson Police detective on the case certainly thought so.

Laura found herself drifting off to sleep. Whatever lessons she could learn from the murder of Julie Marr would have to wait.

“I want you to run somebody on NCIC for me,” Laura said when she reached Victor the next morning.

“Can’t you do it yourself? We’re a little busy here.”

“What’s up?”

“Lehman’s about to give it up.”

“What makes you think that?”

“His lawyer wants a meeting. This whole thing could unravel in the next couple of days. You really ought to be here.”

“I’ll try to hurry it up,” she said. “Do you have the lab report on the tire treads taken up on West Boulevard?”

“Hold on, let me look." She heard him shuffle papers. “Got a whole shitload of stuff from the lab yesterday. A lot to plow through.”

Hinting that without her there, it was twice as much work.

She waited as the paper shuffled for an inordinate amount of time, thinking that if she was wrong about Jimmy de Seroux and had wasted the DPS’s limited budget on a whim, Galaz wouldn’t back her up. She’d be on her own.

“Here it is,” Victor said at last. “They’re Michelins. XRVs.”

“What kind of tires are those?”

“Big ones. The kind you get on trucks, motor homes.”

“Anything else? Was he able to get the wheelbase?”

“I’m looking,” he said impatiently. She could tell he resented having to do it. “Here it is. Looks like it was a motor home. That narrows it down. There are only thousands of them all over Arizona.”

“I’m sending you photos of some treads I found out here. I’m also faxing you the photo of a possible suspect, his name is—“

“Suspect? Didn’t you hear a word I just said?”

She ignored that. “I’ll FedEx a copy of the original as soon as I can get it done. The guy’s name is Jimmy de Seroux.” She spelled it for him and gave him the registration number of his truck. “Be sure to run him on NCIC.”

“Can’t you do it?”

“I don’t have access to NCIC right at this moment.”

Silence. Then, “I’ve got to get going. Lehman’s lawyer’s gonna be here any minute.”

The Apalachicola Police Department offices took up the second story of City Hall near the Apalachicola River. From its proximity to the water, the building could have been a cotton warehouse when the town was a bustling port.

A giant standing fan dominated Chief Redbone’s office, blowing like a blizzard across the cluttered space.

A large man with thinning blond hair and a strawberry complexion, Clyde Redbone heaved himself out of his chair and held out a hand. In his late forties, more muscle than fat, he looked like a former linebacker.

“I’m Laura—“

“Cardinal. I know. Couldn’t forget a pretty name like that. My secretary told me you’d be coming by.” He directed her to a leather couch against the wall that had seen better days. “Sit down, take a load off.”

He skimmed his bulk expertly from behind his desk and aimed the standing fan at her. “How’s that?”

Gale force, but in this heat and humidity, necessary. “Thanks.”

“Something to drink? Coffee? Co’Cola?”

She asked for water and he filled a mug with water from the cooler. He sat down and folded his hands on the green felt blotter. He wore a short-sleeved shirt that exposed massive arms mottled with freckles run together under a nest of blond hair. “What can I help you with?”

“I’m interested in a man named Jimmy de Seroux. Do you know him?”

He leaned back and regarded her through watery blue eyes. Something going on behind them, but she couldn’t tell what it was. “I know Jimmy, but not well. Good piano player.”

“I’m trying to locate him.”

“Think he lives over on Fifteenth Street." He reached for the phone book.

“I know where he lives. I thought you could give me assistance.”

He stood up and reached for his hat, hooked on an old-fashioned hat stand beside the desk. “Why not?" He checked his watch. “Tell you what. It’s lunch time. I was just going to go down to the park and have my sandwich. We could talk there. I try never to miss my half hour outdoors.”

Girls’ voices from the stairwell, giggling and strident.

“Hi, Daddy!”

“Hi, Daddy!”

A couple of teenage girls—twins—clattered into the office on tall sandals. One blonde, one redhead. The blonde wore her hair long and straight, parted in the middle. She wore a short, flouncy skirt. The redhead wore short shorts, much more makeup, and enough chains to pass for Marley’s Ghost. Identical twins, but each of them had developed her own look. Laura guessed it was a way to maintain their individuality.

Redbone looked stricken. “Holy moly, you walked down the street like that?”

From the looks the girls gave him, Laura had the feeling he’d said words to that effect before.

“Can we take the car?” asked the blond one. “Graham wants us to help him look at boats.”

“You think that kid can afford a boat?”

Gum snapped. “Dad. We’re just looking.”

“Graham should be studying for the SATs, and so should you. By the way, this is Laura Cardinal from Arizona. That one who thinks she’s in the navel academy is Amanda, and this is Georgette.”

Georgette lifted her hand in a tiny, lacquered wave, Amanda rolled her eyes.

“Please? Can we have the car or not?” asked Amanda, for all her makeup and chains sounding like a southern belle in training.

“Yes, you can have the car. But you gotta be back by five. Your mother’s cooking roast chicken. Got that?”

They were already out the door, their thank you’s banging off the walls behind them.

Redbone shook his head. “Don’t ever have girls,” he said. “They’ll give you an ulcer, then break your bankbook.”

“There was a girl,” Chief Redbone said, in response to Laura’s question. He had to talk loud over the riding mower negotiating the lawn at the far end of Battery Park. They sat at a picnic table under a canopy of oaks, eating sandwiches bought from a deli on Market Street. Laura had asked the guy at the deli for a hoagie, and he’d looked at her as if she’d come from another planet. Chief Redbone interceded and got them over the language barrier. Next time she’d ask for a sub.

Laura looked out the little marina at the edge of Battery Park, enjoying the sight of the sailboats drowsing in the paint-peeling Gulf sun. Watching them rocking gently in the hot light had a soporific affect.

“Linnet Sobek,” Clyde Redbone said. “Thought she was a runaway.” He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “She ran off twice before. Got herself in all kinds of trouble. You know. Boys, drugs, getting drunk, fighting.” He shook his head, his eyes sad. “Only thirteen years old.”

Thinking about his daughters?

“Couldn’t really blame her. She had a rotten home life. Mother was a meth head. Lots to run away from.”

The aroma of cooking meat drifted across the park in a smoke haze. Laura glanced over at a large family group taking up two tables across the park. Kids, dogs, overweight adults in shorts and tent-like tees. She remembered Victor’s pictures from Lieutenant Galaz’s cookout. “When did she disappear?”

“2002. Early summer—June, I think. I’ve got the file back at the office. She was last seen hitchhiking on C30-A near the turnoff to Indian Pass. Telephone repairman up on a pole saw her go by.”

“You questioned him?”

“What do you think I do here? Trot myself out for the Fourth of July parade every year?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No offense taken. Man’s got to stand up for himself, especially when the big guns from Arizona come callin’.” He grinned, his expression saying no offense. “Humility is a southern trait, since we have so much to be humble about. You’re gonna choke, you scarf down that sandwich so fast.”

“It’s good.” She wiped her mouth with a wispy napkin from the deli. “Those times she ran away. Did she come back voluntarily?”

“Nope. Her brother found her both times.”

He nodded to the cold thermos at his elbow. “Sure you don’t want to try a little of the local brew?”

Sweet tea. “No thanks. What did she look like?”

“That’s the funny thing.” He balled up the butcher paper his sandwich came in and threw it into the garbage can nearby: three points. “Those photos you showed me of your victims? She looked a lot like both those girls. Pretty and blond.”

After lunch they took a tree-lined rural road, C-30A, out to Zebra Island Trading Post and Raw Bar at Indian Pass.

Laura glanced at Redbone. He drove in a desultory fashion, the seat back all the way and one freckled hand steering from the bottom of the wheel.

“Zebra Island Trading Post?” she asked.

“This is the turnoff for St. Vincent Island. St. Vincent was owned by a rich man who thought it would look good with a bunch of zebras on it.”

Before they left the park, the chief suggested that he take the lead, since he knew the owners and probably knew the clientele as well. Laura agreed; she was a fish out of water here.

Redbone swung the wheel and the patrol car slewed into a sandy parking lot, nose in to an old-fashioned country store. Under the pitched roof were a collection of weathered murals depicting an Indian chief’s head—complete with warbonnet—a pastoral scene of zebras grazing, and a giant oyster. A GONE FISHIN’ sign hung in the window.

“Well, that’s strange. I didn’t know Gary was going fishing,” Redbone said. “Guess we should’ve called first.”

They were still thinking what to do when a dull red Blazer of indeterminate age pulled into the lot. KC lights up top, jacked-up wheels. A sinewy man in a black T-shirt and camo pants emerged from the Blazer and went to the newspaper vending machines out front.

The chief buzzed down his window and cocked his elbow on the door. “Ronnie! How you doing?”

“Hey.” Ronnie came over and bent his head inside the driver’s door. “How’re you?”

Chief Redbone nodded Laura’s way. “This pretty lady here is Criminal Investigator Laura Cardinal from Arizona. You know Jimmy de Seroux, don’t you?”

“Jimmy? He photographed my sister’s wedding.”

Redbone turned to Laura. “Ron’s cousin owns this place. Where is Gary, anyway?”

“Went down to St. George for a couple of days of R and R. I’m keeping an eye on the place.”

“Was Jimmy a regular?”

“Sure was. Came in at least once a week.”

“He tell you he was going anywhere?”

Ron rubbed the bristles on his chin. “As a matter of fact, he did. Said he was taking a trip to see the country.”

“When was this?”

“Long time ago. It was still cold—I remember talkin’ to him outside, and as I recall, there was a hard frost from the night before.”

“He say anything else?”

Ron thought about it. “I don’t think so.”

“You know Jimmy very well?”

“Just, he likes his burgers. Every time he come in here he ordered a burger medium rare. Ron don’t cook medium rare anymore. They’d go round and round on that.”

“Jimmy have a girlfriend?”

“Never saw him with anybody. I don’t remember him socializing with anybody, male or female. Real quiet guy, kind of kept to himself.”

“How come he told you he was going on a trip?”

“I don’t remember how that came up. Is it important?” He peered in through the window again. “Did he do something in Arizona?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Redbone said. “Somebody still breaking into those vending machines?”

“Nope. But it don’t hurt to check.”

Laura asked, “Do you know if he had an RV? Camper, motor home?”

Ron shook his head. “Heck, I was surprised when he told me he was going on a trip. Must have been feeling talkative that day.”

Back at Apalachicola PD, Redbone showed Laura the file on Linnet Sobek. It was a thin file because she was considered a missing person. The photograph attached was eerily similar in appearance to that of Alison Burns. Same heart-shaped face, big blue eyes, child’s small nose. Blond hair.

They could have been twins.

Scanning the file, Laura saw nothing that Redbone hadn’t already told her, but she asked for a copy of the file anyway.

“I’ll just run him on NCIC and see what comes up,” Redbone said.

There were no wants or warrants on a Jimmy de Seroux. No previous convictions. If he was who Laura thought he was, he had been very successful as a criminal, sailing under the radar all his adult life.

Next, Redbone checked the Motor Vehicle Division records. Jimmy de Seroux owned only one vehicle, the blue 1967 Chevrolet pickup.