Vanished - A Mystery (Dixon & Baudin Book 1) (17 page)

34

Baudin stood in the parking lot, watching his partner drive away. He was a good man, Baudin decided, but damned naïve. Baudin went inside and got his jacket before heading to his car. Chief Crest was just coming out of the building at the same time.

“I hope you had nothing to do with that, son,” the chief said. “That fraternity has some members that are… important people. They would be downright furious if they knew the police illegally entered the house and stole property that they weren’t entitled to.”

Baudin nodded but said nothing. He turned away from the chief and got into his car, watching as the chief spoke into his cell and got into his Mercedes.

Baudin Googled “Philip Arms” and saw that it was only twenty minutes from the precinct. He pulled out of the lot and drove to the interstate. The window was down, and the hot air blew over him. The smell was different here. The city didn’t have enough humanity to make it stink yet. It still had the scent of brush and desert, of rains that would pound the dirt and churn dust storms; a wild place in the process of being tamed, of becoming normal. That was most days. And every once in a while, the smell of whatever the factories were spewing out would fill the air, making the city stink like any other.

He stopped at a shack selling burritos. He ordered beans with salsa—he was a vegan—and ate at a bench, wiping his hands with thick napkins. They weren’t the cheap stuff he’d expect from a place that should’ve been cutting costs.

When the burrito was finished, he threw his paper plate and napkins into the trash. A couple of girls seated at a bench smiled at him. He smiled back and headed to his car.

Philip Arms consisted of six apartment buildings surrounded by a knee-high white fence. Everything about the place said ostentation and impracticality. Baudin counted no fewer than five BMWs as he parked and got out.

He walked to the first building, easily stepping over the fence and wondering why they had it in the first place, and scanned a cubby with mailboxes. They had first initials and last names, nothing starting with a T.

The second and third buildings were the same. In the fourth was a mailbox for T. Aaron. Apartment 406.

Baudin found 406 on the first floor, the back apartment in the corner. He didn’t check if anyone was home initially. Instead he went around the side of the building and looked in through the sliding glass doors. The curtains were open, and he could see the sliding door was unlocked. He glanced around and went in.

Baudin shut the door quietly behind him and listened. There was a fan on in an adjacent room, and a shower was running. He cautiously stepped through the front room and peeked around the corner. Down a hallway, a door was open: the bathroom. He glided past silently and went to the bedroom.

He searched the drawers, the closet, and underneath the bed. Nothing. The dresser was filled with nothing but socks and underwear. A shoebox in the closet held old family photos. As Baudin was about to give up and leave, he saw something in the corner of the closet: a black box. He bent down and lifted the lid.

Inside were several pipes and a small baggie of marijuana. He smiled to himself, closed the lid, and left the apartment.

Outside, he smoked a cigarette and paced in front of the building. The day was hot and made his neck sticky and uncomfortable. He checked the clock on his phone and saw that Heather would be coming home from school in an hour. Though not something she cared about or even noticed, he liked to be home when she got there.

Baudin remembered his own childhood and the terror of coming home. One foster parent in particular, an old man named Gary, would have five or six foster children at all times, mostly boys, whom he treated relatively well—only delivering the occasional beating for disobedience or if he was drunk. But he always had one or two young girls, too.

The girls were used to make pornography that Gary sent around the world. Gary didn’t make a dime off the porn. It was a phenomenon Baudin had never quite understood, even after his degrees in history and behavioral science and ten years as a detective: the need pedophiles had to share with other pedophiles what they had done. Maybe the fact that others out there shared their darkness made them feel better about it, almost human. But what Baudin saw Gary do to those two girls was certainly not human.

One day, Baudin was taken from Gary’s home. It seemed Gary couldn’t take what he had done and shot himself. But that wasn’t what Baudin had seen. He remembered the episode as if it’d just happened. He came home from school and saw Gary slumped over a desk, a little girl of no more than ten standing behind him, and a pistol, the one Gary liked to use to shoot cans behind the house, lying on the floor.

Baudin helped her clean up, and they promised no one would ever know what actually happened to Gary. And they thought no one ever did. But once Baudin became a detective himself, he found that the detectives investigating the case knew almost immediately what had happened and why they chose to ignore it. The death was ruled a suicide.

Baudin tossed the cigarette onto the sidewalk and ground it out before going back inside the building and pounded on the door of 406. A wet-haired man in jeans and a T-shirt answered.

“Yeah?”

“You Thomas Aaron?”

“Yes.”

He flashed the badge. “I’m Detective Ethan Baudin with the Cheyenne PD. We got a call of marijuana smoke wafting from your apartment.”

“What? That’s crazy. I don’t have any marijuana.”

“Then you won’t mind if I have a look around, will you, sir?”

The man thought a moment. “No. No, that’s fine.”

Baudin entered the apartment. He strode to the center of the room and stood still. “I smell pot here.”

“There’s no pot. I never touch the stuff.”

“Not fresh pot, but pot. Like you’ve smoked it in the past few days. Carpet absorbs the scent. You get used to it, but for someone coming in, it’s clear as day.”

The man swallowed. “I don’t…”

Baudin turned and strode down the hall. He looked in the bathroom and in a hall closet before going into the bedroom and standing in the doorway. Thomas stood in the living room, his face pale and his eyes wide. Baudin went to step inside.

“Please,” he said. “Please.”

“Please what, Mr. Aaron?”

“I’m a CPA. I can’t have a criminal conviction on my record. Please, I’ll do anything.”

Baudin crossed the hallway and stood in front of him. “How much pot am I gonna find in that bedroom?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“More than five ounces?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“I’m guessing you got a firearm in that closet, too, don’t you?”

He nodded. “Yeah. But just a pistol I use for home defense.”

Baudin made a clicking sound with his cheek. “See, now that’s a problem. Whenever a firearm is in proximity to a stash of drugs, that’s an automatic felony. We assume the gun is used in furtherance of buying or selling drugs.”

“What? No, I never even take it out of the case.”

“Well, you’ll have to explain that to the prosecutor and the judge.”

“No,” he said, grabbing Baudin’s arm. “Please, I’ll do anything.”

Baudin glanced down at the hand.

Thomas immediately withdrew it and said, “Sorry.”

“You’ll do anything if I let this slide, huh? Well, I want some information, then.”

“About what?”

“I was investigating a case about a girl you knew. Alli Tavor.”

A light turned on in the man’s head. Baudin watched his demeanor go from passive fear to anger. “That’s why you’re here. Nobody called about pot.”

“Whether they called or not, that’s what I’m finding in that closet. So do you want to have an honest conversation with me, or should I go ahead and call this in?”

Thomas took a step backward, as though frightened. He leaned against the wall, staring at Baudin. “What do you want to know?”

“You were dating Alli Tavor.”

“No, I didn’t even—”

Baudin reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. The two men stood staring at each other in silence. Finally Thomas said, “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I was dating her.”

“You know she’s dead?”

Thomas nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It was on the news.”

“How did you come to date a sixteen-year-old?”

“It just… happened. I didn’t know she was sixteen when we first met. She acted like she was thirty. I didn’t know. And by the time I found out, it didn’t really matter. I was too deep into it.”

“We found semen inside her,” Baudin lied. “Is it going to match your DNA?”

“No, no way. I hadn’t slept with her in months. She was dating some new guy and said she didn’t want to see me anymore. She… she came over once after that, and that was it.”

“She came over, and you guys had sex?”

He nodded. “She said she had blown some random guy in a bathroom and wanted to tell me about it. She went through everything in detail, and then… we did it. She left after that, and I never heard from her again.”

“You saw her on the news?”

“I did.”

“And you didn’t think to call the cops?”

“Are you kiddin’ me? She was sixteen. No way I was gonna call.”

Baudin closed the distance between them. At no time did he get the impression that this man was a killer. Going with his gut was the most dangerous type of tool but one that worked often enough that he had come to rely on it. He didn’t have a lot of choice. His gut told him Thomas Aaron wasn’t capable of killing anybody… but that he might know who was capable.

“Who did she dump you for?”

“I don’t know. Some frat guy.”

Baudin was silent for a second. “What frat guy?”

“I don’t know his name. I saw him only once, when he came by with her to pick up some stuff she’d left here. A toothbrush and clothes.”

“What’d he drive?”

“Red Volvo. An SUV.”

Baudin held the man’s gaze before taking a step back. He scanned the room. “If I find out you’re lying to me, I’ll be back to hit you with that stat rape. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Baudin left the apartment. He shut the door behind him and stood there a second, picturing a red Volvo in his mind. When he had been at the frat house the other night, he’d seen one parked in front.

Baudin rushed to his car.

35

Dixon ate lunch by himself at a little dive sandwich place near the precinct. The restaurant, despite several closings the past year for health code violations, was always packed. The food was just too good. He got the Colossus: a cheeseburger packed with French fries, freshly made mac and cheese, and a fried egg. It was so gooey it dripped down his chin and spotted his tie.

“Damn it,” he mumbled, dabbing at it with a napkin.

His cell phone rang; it was Baudin.

“What do you want?” Dixon said.

“He’s a current member of the frat. Drives a red Volvo. I ran the plates, Dustin Orridge.”

Dixon exhaled loudly and pushed the mass of wet meat away from him. “Shit.”

“Hate me still?”

“Just not at the frat house, okay? They’re already on our ass. Let’s wait until he leaves and stop him.”

“Done. Where you want to meet?”

By the time Baudin picked him up, Dixon had eaten half the burger and felt ill. He was sucking on a Sprite when he climbed into the car and Baudin sped away.

“Do I even want to know how you found this out?” Dixon asked.

“Just good old detective work. Nothing fancy.” He pulled some sheets of paper off the dash and handed them to Dixon. “His rap and a psych profile.”

“What’d he have a psych profile done for?”

“Part of sentencing on a conviction for lewdness. He flashed some sixth-graders at a playground. Read the last paragraph.”

Dixon read.

It is this therapist’s opinion that Mr. Orridge, though early in his criminal career, has not shown any signs of remorse or correction of behavior. In fact, his statements on the entry-of-plea form to this court indicate that he blames the victims, has no sense of repercussions, and feels that women and young girls somehow “owe” him their sexual favors. I do not believe, based on my seventeen years’ experience as a child psychologist, that Mr. Orridge is a good candidate for probation. It would be our recommendation that some form of incarceration be imposed, with immediate and long-lasting treatment.

“Wow,” Dixon said.

“Orridge was fifteen when that was written. The therapist says earlier in that report that he comes from a wealthy family, and there’re allegations that he raped one of their maids and may have molested a sister, both things the family buried to save themselves embarrassment. This kid’s a predator, man.”

“One thing, you let me handle him. You don’t talk. You come with me, show your muscles and your tattoos, but no talking.”

“Sure, whatever you say, man.”

Baudin parked the car down the street from the Sigma Mu house, close enough that they could see everyone coming and going but not so close that anyone in the frat would notice two men in a car. The Volvo was parked right in front.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dixon asked.

“Tell you what?”

“That you were gonna break into the frat?”

Baudin rubbed his lower lip with his index finger as he watched the house. “I thought you’d say no.”

“I would’ve said no, but you still tell your partner. This shit we got goin’ isn’t gonna work. It’s either all trust or no trust. No gray.”

Baudin looked at him. “All right, brother. From now on, no secrets. I run everything by you.”

Dixon nodded, unsure if he really believed him. But he had to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Baudin’s cell phone rang.

“Hello? … Baby? What’s wrong? No… it’s okay… okay… no, but I promise… I’ll be home soon… Heather, we already talked about this, several times… I know… I know… I’ll see you soon.”

Dixon didn’t say anything as he hung up the phone. But he’d heard the girl crying on the other end.

Baudin took a deep breath. “She wants to move back to LA. Says she doesn’t fit in here and misses her friends. Somebody was mean to her at school.”

“That age, friends are all you got. You can’t relate to your parents. Shit, you know that.”

“No, I never had parents. Foster parents, at least in the area
I
was in, weren’t no parents. They saw me as a paycheck. There was one family who took me in. They really loved me, I think. Talked about adopting me.”

“Why didn’t they?”

“Didn’t give ’em a chance. I ran off.”

Dixon shifted in his seat to have a better look at him. “Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know. I got close and… I don’t know. Maybe I thought it was only a matter of time before these good people turned to bad people. I needed to believe there were good people in the world and didn’t want them to ruin that.”

Dixon was silent a moment. “Ethan, you are by far the most fucked-up person I have ever known.”

He chuckled. “Shit, man. You’re not a paradigm of normality yourself.”

Before Dixon could respond, someone popped out of the frat.

“That’s him,” Baudin said.

Coming down the steps with a backpack slung over his arm was Orridge, and two other boys. They spoke at the base of the steps a long while before they split up, and Orridge went to his own car. He threw the backpack into the passenger seat and started the engine. Baudin did the same and waited until the red Volvo pulled away before he merged into traffic and then flipped a U-turn.

The Volvo turned left and headed deeper into the campus.

“What time is it?” Baudin said, not moving his eyes from the car.

“Four. They got classes that start in half an hour up here, the evening ones. Mostly social science, so he’s headed to the north side of campus.”

Baudin hung back. He let several cars cut in between him and Orridge. The Volvo followed all the traffic laws perfectly.

“This guy’s not breaking any traffic rules,” Baudin said.

“So?”

“So how many people you know can do that? He’s studied up. Even changing lanes, he knows you have to signal three seconds ahead of time.”

“That don’t mean he kills girls, man.”

“Doesn’t help his case.”

Dixon glanced at him. “Just remember that I’m doin’ all the talkin’. I’m serious about that.”

“My lips are sealed.”

The Volvo made a turn up ahead, and Baudin followed. It went down a long street and then turned again, this time south.

“Shit,” Baudin said.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“There’s no way he—”

The Volvo gunned it up a street, and its tires screeched as it took a turn too fast. Baudin hit the gas, and the car lurched forward. He didn’t stop at a red light, and the car was almost clipped by an F-150 truck. Dixon swore at the top of his lungs as Baudin took the same turn Orridge had but at twice the speed.

“Slow down!”

“He’s not getting away.”

The Volvo was on a narrow road in a residential area. It was passing cars, swerving into oncoming traffic, and then swerving back. Baudin did the same. Horns blared and car tires squealed as people scrambled to get out of the way.

Instead of fighting it, which he knew he wasn’t going to win anyway, Dixon strapped on his seat belt and held on to the grip above the door.

The Volvo slammed on its brakes and flipped a U-turn so fast it looked as though it might tip over. Baudin did the same but pulled the emergency brake, flipping the car around at a speed that pushed Dixon into the door. Smoke billowed out from the tires. Baudin hit the gas and peeled out on the pavement.

“Slow down, man.”

“We’ll never get this chance again.”

Dixon took out his phone.

“No,” Baudin said. “Don’t call it in.”

“You shittin’ me? We can cut him off with patrols in a New York minute.”

Baudin shook his head. “He’s ours, Kyle. This is between us and him. No one else.”

Dixon lowered the phone and then put it back in his pocket.