Too Far Gone (11 page)

“I'm really much tougher than I look,” Casey said.

“I'm sure you are. I need Grace's social, phone numbers, and her current address,” Alexa said, taking out her notebook.

24

A fly landed on Leland's top lip and crawled right into his nose like it lived there. He turned, pinched his nostril to pin it, closed his mouth, pressed his index finger to close the clear nostril, and expelled the stunned fly out into the shallows, where a minnow ate it right off the surface, then vanished into the murk. What he was doing wasn't hard work, but it was time-consuming, and he had things to get done.

Overhead, a line of honking geese churned the air as they rose from the bayou. Turning from his task, Leland watched the flowing line of geese start to straighten, and he smiled at how the birds formed up into a flying V. How could they learn such precision, know a letter of the alphabet like that, with brains no bigger than a rat turd.

After field-dressing them—removing their innards so they couldn't float up—Leland had filled the empty cavities of the corpses with chunks of concrete, then tied up their torsos with nylon rope. Blood had made the deck so slippery, he had to move carefully to keep from falling. He had decided to bait some gator hooks on the way back to camp so he wouldn't waste time. He didn't want the warden's boat, because the twin engines were smaller than his one, and it was too sloppy in the turns for his taste. Before he'd got the better boat from Doc, he mighta kept it and painted it and used it to work out of, but his boat was a lot, so he didn't mind scuttling theirs.

As he approached the last gator hook, hanging over the water from a tree limb, he slowed and let the vessel coast in under the tree. A fat cottonmouth swam across the water, sitting up so high it didn't appear to be getting wet as it made for the shore, vanishing into the reeds. Leland wished he could catch it and put it in with the others, but he didn't have time just then, and he'd find one just as big when he did.

Leland took the last piece of meat off the bone and baited the hook with it. After he was satisfied that the tendon would make the meat difficult for the gators to steal off the hook, he looked at the way the sock was rolled down under the ankle before throwing the leg bone, socked foot and all, up into the weeds onshore.

25

“Grace isn't involved,” Casey insisted. “I know her like I know myself. Better even.”

“I have to check out everybody who's involved with you and Gary on a regular basis. It's standard operating procedure to look first at everyone close and work our way out. Make me a list as soon as you can. For the time being, I'm assuming that whoever did this knew yours and Gary's schedule—when he'd be where.”

“Grace Smythe. One twenty-three Durban Place. I'll make up a list of our other friends and close associates and their addresses and phone numbers.”

“Okay,” Alexa said.

The phone rang.

“Grace'll get that,” Casey said. “Every time it rings I pray it's a kidnapper just asking for some money. If they ask, I can pay the ransom. You wouldn't interfere with that, would you, Alexa? If an exchange got messed up and Gary suffered for it, I couldn't live with myself.”

“It's totally your decision, Casey. I'll make suggestions based on my experience, though, and you'd be smart to take them. If you get a demand, you should let me know immediately.”

“They usually say not to tell the police, don't they?”

“Yes, but they won't know you did.”

After a few seconds spent in silence, Grace Smythe, wearing a worried expression, came back with a chilled bottle of water in her hand and gave it to Alexa absently and unopened. “It's Lucille Burch. The bottle blonde with the sharp nose and whiny voice. The reporter, or whatever she calls herself.”

“What does she want?” Casey asked.

“She told me she wants to get your reaction to something.”

“Gary?”

“No. She says that she's been told that the Danielson woman is out of the hospital. She's trying to confirm the story before she puts it on the air.”

Casey gasped.

Alexa knew who Sibby Danielson was, but not that she had been released from the hospital she'd been committed to after murdering Casey's parents twenty-six years before.

“Don't talk to her,” Alexa advised. “Grace, tell her Casey has no comment.”

“No comment always looks worse than anything people say,” Grace insisted.

“I know Lucille Burch,” Casey said. “She'll never give up.”

“She's likely just looking to get her facts in line and spice up a story by getting you to tell her something she doesn't yet know is true,” Alexa said. “She probably doesn't know about Gary's disappearance yet, or she wants to get confirmation if she has caught wind of it. You shouldn't talk to the press until the time is right, and I don't think it is.”

“I'd think you'd want people calling in tips,” Grace told Alexa.

“We need good tips, but we don't have the manpower to run down hundreds. So far we're lucky not to have to deal with the complications the media would provide. When the time is right, we'll fill them in and ask for their help if we think it's in Gary's best interest. I've been here before. Trust me. With the hurricane heading this way, and nothing from you to fuel chasing after Sibby rumors or looking into a tip about Gary, she'll probably put it on a back burner. When and if we decide to announce that Gary has been abducted, we'll get maximum exposure. Let's give it a few hours before we make that call. If this is a kidnapping, the perps probably will be watching the news, and the media will make any coming and going unobserved very difficult.”

“You could say she doesn't concern you,” Grace told Casey. “You could say if she's cured, it's cool, or something like that.”

Casey's eyes went from Alexa to Grace and back. “Tell Burch I said this is the first I've heard about it. Tell her I won't involve myself in speculation.”

Alexa nodded. “Grace, tell her Casey has no knowledge about Ms. Danielson nor any comment at this time.”

Grace left the room, headed for the kitchen.

“I didn't know that woman could ever get out,” Casey murmured. “How could Sibhon Danielson be let out and me not know about it?”

“If she was insane when she committed the offense, she could be released as long as she was no longer a danger to herself or others. They don't set specific sentences for those adjudicated insane.”

Alexa figured the anniversary could explain why the media was snooping around after information on a twenty-six-year-old case. The date had drawn media interest, and with a few phone calls a researcher could easily discover whether or not the perpetrator was still incarcerated. Alexa wondered how long it would be before some cop clued them in on Gary's disappearance. She was amazed it hadn't happened yet. That could only be due to the threat of the storm and the fact that most people in the area, including the police, had more pressing things to be concerned with at the moment. It appeared that the hurricane might actually be beneficial to the investigation.

She knew that she had to find out where Sibby Danielson was. It seemed unlikely, but if the murderer was really out in the world, she might be somehow involved—especially if the person, or persons, who took Gary might have been after his wife. Casey was the lone witness to a twenty-six-year-old double homicide. It was remotely possible that, in a psychotic mind, Casey West might fall under the heading of unfinished business.

26

A very tired Michael Manseur sat at a desk in the office of the evidence labs just around the corner from headquarters. CSI Chief Sergeant Mickey Wayne Cooley put a piece of paper in front of his guest, along with a cup of strong coffee. The head of Homicide merely nodded once in appreciation.

“The glass shards are from a sealed-beam headlight manufactured for older vehicles—which makes sense, given the height of the bumper strike on the Volvo and the green paint sample,” Cooley said. “Used to be a fairly common stock lens that fit hundreds of vehicles.”

“Great,” Manseur replied.

“The transferred paint in the sample isn't as common. There are two layers showing two paint jobs. The outer layer is more recent and was sold by auto-paint suppliers. But the undermost layer is a factory color from an early-sixties GMC truck.”

“A truck,” Manseur said.

“It wasn't used on just any trucks. You're looking for one of these in a sun-faded goose-shit green, Michael.” Cooley set a photocopy of an old advertisement for the vehicle in front of Manseur. “Panel truck—forerunner to the commercial van.”

“That's great. Won't be many still registered.”

“Not a single one in that color is registered in the state of Louisiana. We're querying adjacent states now. The scratch on the Volvo's inside driver's door was made by a pipe that's three-quarter inches in diameter that was cut off clean. No thread mark in the impression. Pipe is no more than about sixteen to eighteen inches long, based on angle of the strike and the distance that the door opens.”

“Great,” Manseur grumbled before carefully sipping his hot coffee. “Pipe.”

“According to trace, it's a pipe with high lead content. What's commonly referred to as a ‘lead pipe,' as in Colonel Plum did it in the conservatory with a lead pipe.”

“So that's rare?”

“Lead is toxic. Lead pipes haven't been commercially available since the early sixties, and you only find them in old structures or scrap yards.”

“Lucky thing for us there's no old buildings in New Orleans.”

“True, it's around. If it helps, there was trace water with a high salt content transferred along with the blood, so the pipe's been immersed in water recently and there are other blood types. One human.”

“One human?”

“O negative only on the human side. The other is animal blood. Also found a hair that looked like rodent hair, but not rat.”

“That leaves, what, gerbils, hamsters, squirrels, and muskrats?”

“It's closer related to South American tapirs than muskrats.”

“Tapirs?”

“Nutria cousin the size of a pig. There's one out at the zoo. The hair might have been there before the attack.”

“I doubt Gary West had any dealings with swimming rodents.”

“Amount of human blood was negligible and there were two blows.”

“That's what Keen said,” Manseur said to himself.

“Keen?” Cooley asked.

“FBI Special Agent Keen,” Manseur said.

“Not
Alexa
Keen?” Cooley asked.

“You know her?”

“I know of her. Tech I work with at the FBI lab told me about her. He said she reads crime scenes better than he can. Said she has a gift for thinking twisted, reading people, and interpreting scenes accurately. I've sort of kept up a little with her career since. Last year she was involved with that Army Intelligence shake-up around that judge's daughter's kidnap deal in the Carolinas.”

“With Winter Massey,” Manseur said, nodding.

“Winter ‘hell-comes-to-breakfast' Massey. He's another one I try to keep up with. Seems whenever he's anywhere around here, I get almost as busy as the medical examiner. Next time I hear he's in town, I'm going on sabbatical till the smoke clears. You know him from that Manelli firefight out near St. Rose?”

Manseur shook his head. “The Porter homicide. I was out on vacation for the Manelli thing.”

“Man's a human tornado,” Cooley said. “You know how lightning never strikes twice in the same place? If Massey was here, wouldn't be any point in another hurricane coming.”

“Yeah.” Manseur smiled. “He's a very good man.”

“I'm sure. We're processing the Volvo prints, and there's a bunch to go through. I need reference prints from the people who use it. How'd Alexa Keen get involved?”

“She was here in town and agreed to help out.” Manseur stood and picked up the report. “For practice, I guess.”

“You picked out a dry spot to get your girls to, Michael?”

“They're going to stay with my wife's sister in Birmingham. Leaving later today.”

“You might want to go with them before leaves are canceled.”

“All leaves are already canceled. Everybody's reporting in. You didn't know?”

“I haven't heard anything on account of what I've been doing on your
secret
case. This Katrina might be the big one,” Cooley said. “You thought about that? It happens, there won't be much left of this place.”

“They always turn,” Manseur said. “Most of the citizens won't stop their normal business until they're sipping their drinks underwater.”

“So where's the plate?” Cooley asked.

“Sorry?”

“The license tag from the Volvo?”

“Why you want to know that?”

“I was wondering why all the hush-hush was afoot on an obvious red ball case without anybody saying so. Must be a big one. I could run the VIN to find out,” Mickey said.

“You could, but I don't think you want to.”

“Why's that?”

“Because, if word of that name were to happen to leak out prematurely, everybody who knows is going to have to bend over so the super can shine a great big spotlight up their hidey-holes. Curiosity killed the cat, Mickey.”

“One thing I always wondered,” Cooley said.

“What's that?”

“What was it that cat wanted to know?” He laughed at his own joke.

“Wasn't what he wanted to know that killed him,” Manseur said, walking to the door. “Was the answer did that.”

27

Manseur was moving up on the sidewalk toward his office when his cell rang. It looked like every cruiser in town was parked on the street outside HQ. Uniformed officers and detectives were gathered in groups, shooting the breeze. He fished the phone from his coat pocket, looked at the caller ID, and answered.

“Agent Keen,” he said. “Looks like we're looking for an old GMC or Chevrolet panel truck. CSI says it was a pipe, just like you thought. Lead, with a nutria hair and salt water on it. Nutria's a pesky swimming rodent the size of a house cat that lives in the swamps and marshes. Two blows. They're running the Volvo prints now. You get anything new?”

“Michael, I think it's possible the woman who killed the LePointes, Sibby Danielson, is out,” she told him. “That may explain the media's sudden interest in those files.”

The implication of that possibility didn't escape the seasoned detective.

“Can you find out where she was being held and if she's out?” she asked. “We need to do it quietly so we don't set off any alarms and have the hospital calling the media.”

Manseur's heart rate sped up as his gait increased.

“I'll check on her place of incarceration, and I'm on my way,” he told her. “Sit tight and I'll come get you.”

One call and he found out Sibby Danielson had been sent to River Run, ten miles north of the city, facing the Mississippi River levee. He picked up Alexa at a strip mall parking lot and drove out River Road, which more or less hugged the Mississippi River levee. The highway started at Canal Street at the river and ran, under a variety of highway numbers and street names, clear to Minnesota, or someplace up north. Despite what the weather people said, the crystal-clear sky and the dry air seemed to belie the fact that a storm was swallowing up almost the entire Gulf of Mexico, making its way toward them.

“Sibby aside for the moment, you think Gary got grabbed because he was in Casey's car?”

“Since the Volvo's windows are tinted dark, it's a possibility the assailant didn't see that Gary was driving her car,” Alexa said.

“If the Danielson woman did do it, she had to have had some help. I suppose the perps could have thought Casey was still in the car if they hadn't been watching closely and seen him leave in it,” Manseur said.

“If they saw him drive there in the GTO with the baby, they could have waited down the road for the Volvo and followed it, assuming Casey was in it,” Alexa said. “The perps could have waited down the road so they wouldn't be seen lurking, and followed the car. But…”

“But?”

“It's also possible that someone on the inside knew they'd switch cars and told the perps.”

Manseur absently tapped the steering wheel. “So you like the assistant, Smythe, for it,” Manseur said.

“Well, Grace talked about the Volvo being found in a residential neighborhood. I never said where the Volvo was found.”

“You sure?”

“Location never came up. I suppose Evans could have told Dr. LePointe and he mentioned it to Casey.”

Manseur said, “Grace could have assumed that since the Volvo wasn't found immediately, it was because in a residential area parked cars wouldn't attract police attention. She's been a close friend of Casey West's forever, so why would she be involved? What would she have to gain…besides cash?”

How could she relate the feelings she had about Grace Smythe's hero worship? With Gary out of the way, Grace might think she'd be closer to Casey. That Casey, in her grief, might cling to Grace as a convenient life raft.

“Maybe Grace has another motive,” Alexa said. “My impression of Grace is that she is the sort of person who was born into a respected family but without any money left to go with the name. She told me the LePointes took her around the world, implying she couldn't have gone on such trips otherwise. Given her history as Casey's friend, she can't enjoy being a salaried employee and fetch-it girl, which is exactly what she is. Dr. LePointe treats her like a servant, and to a lesser extent so does Casey. I suspect that Grace went on those trips because she was an acceptable traveling companion for Casey, and a paid pal was how the LePointes saw her, and that's how William still sees her. I think Grace knows it deep down, and is in denial over it.”

“So Casey isn't her friend?” Manseur asked.

“Yes, a close friend, but she's also her employer. Grace is a remote second banana to Gary with Casey, and maybe that's a hard wire to walk. Grace is basically expendable, and maybe Gary sees her that way. He's fiercely into Casey and Deana, but it's possible he doesn't care much for Grace. She's sort of clingy and self-important.”

“I don't see her best friend doing it, but she's on the inside, and I'm open to anything. But lots of people not connected to the Wests could have gotten this every-Friday meal pattern by watching them, or maybe a waitress, like Cindy/Nancy, or another waitress, said something to a husband, or a hundred somebody else's.”

Alexa shrugged. It was true and possible. But it didn't feel right to her.

“You think Casey West could be in any danger?” Manseur ventured. “Say, if Sibby Danielson is out and is after revenge or something, a crazy person obsessing on it for twenty-six years might act on it as soon as she can swing an exit from the nut hatch.”

“I think Casey's well-enough protected from an axe-swinging middle-aged woman,” Alexa said. “Even if Casey were the original target and somebody'd planned to get LePointe to pay a ransom for her, they'd certainly know Gary was a valuable enough commodity to make their effort pay just as much.”

“Not a crazy woman's thinking,” he said. “More likely revenge.”

“Someone acting with her might have changed the focus for her. If they took Gary by an unanticipated turn in events, they could be flexible enough to adapt from revenge to profit.”

“You have a point or three,” Manseur agreed.

“And something Casey said needs to be considered. It's also possible that someone who thinks it would please Dr. LePointe is behind this.”

“Like who?”

“I don't know. Why not Decell? He sure could have pulled it off.”

“He wouldn't have targeted Casey. If that's the case, Gary West is dead. If Decell's behind it, he'll have covered his tracks and wouldn't have any reason to keep Gary alive. You can take that to the bank. And if that's the case, it means we're wasting our time.”

“Pollyanna Manseur,” Alexa said, laughing.