Yes, maybe a sketch, maybe in color, of the outfit.
And what did her clothing say about her killer?
He didn’t leave her naked. She was dressed when she went into the water. What did that mean? Did it mean it wasn’t sexual? Did it mean that he just killed her for the hell of it, or killed her because he knew her and hated her, or tired of her? It could be any of those things.
If he shot her and dumped her in the water, what did he wish to accomplish? He could have buried her, but he didn’t.
“He didn’t care about her."
She heard herself say it out loud. But that wasn’t quite right, was it?
Maybe she was old news.
Maybe he wanted to get away from what he’d done. Maybe he wanted to get away from her.
Or maybe, just maybe, he panicked.
He left her clothes on.
His statement could have been this: I am not a sexual predator. I’m not that kind of asshole.
Or maybe, he didn’t think about it at all.
Maybe he was done with her, shot her, threw her into the flooded arroyo like so much trash. A gum wrapper, or a cigarette.
There were plenty of that kind out there.
Laura felt the ugliness deep in her gut. It could be the woman meant nothing. Was something to be toyed with, and then disposed of. This woman who had long hair down to her waist, this woman who had picked out those beautiful jewel colors, who loved her suede boots but didn’t give a rat’s ass about the white line on either side of her part—he had denied her her humanity.
On the upside, though, Laura was pretty sure she knew where the woman would have spent at least some of her time.
Fourth Avenue.
She signed in at the Arizona Department of Public Safety, Tucson office, spent some time on the wrap-up of another homicide, then went looking for Terry Doss.
She showed him a photo of the woman, paying particular attention to the clothes she wore.
“Can you draw her?” she asked. “I was thinking you could play up the part in her hair and the clothes. If you can reconstruct her face, that would be good."
He looked skeptical. “I’ll give it a shot."
“Just do the best you can, but pay attention to the part in her hair and the clothes. Do it in color."
Steve nodded.
“She’s a type,” he said. “My wife calls them ‘drum circle ladies.’ ”
“Let’s have some respect for the dead."
“Considering they’re doing the autopsy today, that ship has sailed." He consulted his watch. “Or is about to."
“Busy week."
“Yeah, they’re stacked up like cordwood." Cop humor. “Without her teeth, it’s going to be hard. Hopefully, those colors and the way she was dressed will help."
Laura drove back to Florence to witness the autopsy. There was little to hint at the victim’s identity. One of her bones had been gnawed on, probably by rodents. Some of her bones were abraded, possibly by sand and water, and insects had made inroads into her corpse. What organs might have remained were missing. This pointed to carnivore scavenging. The water, of course, had made it harder to define time of death, so it was left to the rodents, the ants, the bugs to provide the clues.
Laura drove to Fourth Avenue and parked on the street. Armed with the sketch of the victim’s clothing, she started on one end of the arts and crafts district.
The third store she visited sold clothes similar to the clothing on her victim. Laura showed the drawing to the woman at the counter.
“She looks familiar. Her clothes look familiar."
“She was here?”
“I think so."
Anything at all that stood out about her?”
“Just that she looked good."
Laura tried one more time. “What was your impression of her? Besides her clothes?”
“I think…
“What?”
“I’m not sure, but, you know, she kept looking toward the door."
“She did?”
“Yes, like she was waiting for somebody."
“Did she meet someone? Maybe someone who came in to the store?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I was busy with customers."
Laura said. “Is there a store around here that sells clothes like that?”
“You can try Bilbo’s."
“Bilbo’s?”
“Three doors down."
“Thank you." Laura pushed a card across the glass counter. “If you remember anything else—anything at all—please call me."
As Laura pushed open the door, the woman called out, “What happened to her? Was she murdered?”
Laura gave her a brief wave, and walked out onto the street.
Bilbo’s wasn’t much bigger than a walk-in closet, and the incense made her nose tickle. It was dark, too, but the two round racks of clothing were exactly what Laura was looking for. Deep jewel colors, broomstick skirts, crocheted vests and caps, flamboyant blouses.
And boots.
The exact same type of boots. She picked up a pair, went to the cash register, and punched the bell on the counter.
A woman came out of the back. She was thin to the point of anorexia and wore a broomstick skirt, knit top and matching knit cap. Long gray hair, cowboy boots, and a face that hinted that the day hadn’t gone well so far, and she wasn’t expecting it to get any better.
“You need something?” she said as she slipped behind the counter.
Laura introduced herself and held up a boot. “Has anyone bought a pair of boots like this from you, recently?”
“What’s this about?”
Laura gestured to the badge clipped to her belt and introduced herself.
“Oh. I’ll have to check."
“I’d like to know how many boots like this were sold, and when, and any information you can give me regarding the sale—if it was cash, check, or credit card."
“I’ll try and pull it up. But it’s gonna be a minute. The computer is a real spaz today."
Laura held up a colored drawing that approximated the deceased woman’s form, the blouse, the belt, the jeans and the boots. “Do you remember anyone who looks like this?”
The woman stared at the picture. “The boots look like ours, but I could give you three other stores on this block who sold them. Without the box and the receipt, I couldn’t tell you if they came from us. The blouse—we don’t sell those."
Laura nodded.
“But the belt. The beading on it? That looks like something we’d sell, although it would have been a while back. But I know of at least three other stores who sell the same kind."
Laura said, “The woman was probably in her mid-to-late sixties."
“Sorry. There are a lot of women like that who buy clothes here. I’m pretty intuitive. If I’d seen her, even from just your drawing and the outfit, I would have known by now. I’m just not feeling anything."
“Could someone else have been working here?”
“I’ll ask Dina. She should be back from lunch any minute now. So why don’t you take a look around? I bet you’re the kind who would look wonderful in one of those broomstick skirts."
Laura waited, and eventually a smallish young woman, white as a ghost and sporting a long dark ponytail walked up to her. “I’m Dina?” she said. “Junie told me to look at a picture?”
Laura handed her the drawing.
Dina turned and hunched over, staring at the sketch.
Laura waited. And waited.
“I think…”
Finally she turned and motioned toward the boots. “She wasn’t wearing boots. She wore a skirt, and she wanted a blouse to go with it."
“Are you sure?”
“I remember because I loved her hair—a kind of rich brown, and I asked her where she got the color. She gave me the name of her colorist and hair-cutter."
“Do you have it?”
“It’s on my phone—I can pull it up." She swiped her phone and started pecking away. “Hair by Domini
c."
“When was this?”
“A couple of months ago, maybe? I don’t know. To be honest, I forgot about it."
Laura handed her a card. “If you remember anything else, call me, okay?”
She nodded. “Okay."
From Fourth Avenue, Laura drove to Hair by Dominic, on Campbell Avenue, not far from The University of Arizona.
Dominic nodded at her description of the woman. “Windsong."
“That was her name? Did you get to know her well?”
“She only came in a couple of times. You’re a detective?” He covered his mouth. “Is this…is she, was she murdered?”
Laura ignored the question. “Anything you remember about her?”
“Just she was good-looking for her age."
“How old do you think she was?”
He shrugged. “Fifty, maybe?”
“How did she pay you? Credit card? Check?”
“Let me . . . Oh—it was cash. Yeah, both times."
“Did you notice what kind of car she drove?”
“Nope."
“What did you talk about?”
“Her boyfriend. How she’d finally found . . . what is this? Was she . . . did her boyfriend off her?”
Laura ignored that. “Did you meet him? Did he come in with her?”
“No. What happened? Something bad?”
“I’m still trying to establish if this has anything to do with what I’m investigating."
“So she’s not dead, then? Jesus, you scared me!”
Laura let him assume that was the case. “Did she give you any indication where she lived?”
“I have no idea. We talked a lot, but it was just small talk. Like her grown daughter who lives in Oregon. Stuff like that."
“You don’t by any chance know where her daughter lives? The town?”
He shook his head.
“The guy she was seeing—can you remember her saying anything about him?”
“Oh, my God. She’s dead, isn’t she? What happened? Was it a homicide?”
Again, Laura ignored the question. “Did her boyfriend ever come with her? Waited for her to get her hair done?”
He stared past her, trying to remember. “I don’t think so. I would’ve remembered."
“So you say she talked about him. Can you remember anything specifically?”
“She said they were going to California. She was excited about that."
“You know where?”
He shook his head. “She just wanted to look good."
“Did she mention him by name?”
“I think his name was ‘Roy’ or ‘Ray’. Maybe Ron. Something like that."
“What was her name?”
“Carla." He found her on his phone, showed it to her. “Yeah, here she is. Carla Borel."
Laura entered the number into her phone.
“She’s really dead? Wow, I never knew anyone who wasn’t old that died before."
You’re lucky, Laura thought, but didn’t say. “Thanks for your help." She handed him her card. “There might be some follow-up. If you think of anything—anything at all that struck you as odd, maybe a friend of hers or something she said, give me a call. Or if she was worried about something. Please call me."
Outside, it was full-on sun. She felt it burning her face. She walked to the car.
Carla Borel. The dead woman had a name.
She could feel it—half back-flip, half tingle in her gut.
She hadn’t made much progress until now. But hopefully, that would change.
Laura and her partner, Dennis Lang, drove to Carla Borel’s townhome in midtown. They had to get a key from the office. The place smelled stale. Fortunately, there were no pets—dead or alive. The neighbors on one side were at work, and the townhome next-door was empty. They’d have to come back later.
First thing they noticed was that there was no car in the carport. They had not recovered a car from the crime scene, either; it was possible the killer drove it away from the scene and, if he were wise, disposed of it. Or, he could have left the keys in the car, so it could be stolen. They did have the make and model and license plate. The car was an SUV, a three-year-old Nissan, with an Arizona license plate.
The killer might have taken it, but this was a long time ago. She’d already put out an APB on the vehicle, but nothing had come back. It had not been ditched yet.
They photographed every room. The place was unusual for what they didn’t find. No laptop, no purse, no mess. The assumption could be made that she had her phone with her the day she died, which meant it might have been washed away in the arroyo. Still, she made a note to go back and look for it again. They searched for a physical address book, but didn’t find one. They sketched and photographed each room from all angles.
The place was as neat, clean, and coordinated as a high-end hotel room. A few framed paintings of the desert were scattered around the house, and photos of what had to be family.
Laura went back to the desk. The desk faced a picture window to the outside. She had to look hard, but it appeared to her that dead center on the desk, close to the front, was a slightly-less-dusty space that indicated a laptop.
They looked all over for it, but if there had been a laptop, it was long gone.
Laura’s phone chimed just as they headed out the door. She stopped and swiped the phone. A number came up for a fraction of a second, against a silhouette of a witch on a broomstick. She had barely an instant to register the image, and then the call was dropped. She scrambled to find “Recent Calls” but nothing new was listed.
Which was strange in itself.
But she’d seen the image. It was an “eight." A big black 8.
Laura felt as if someone had dropped a good-sized stone down her throat and into her gut. She stood blinking in the hot sun, feeling the heat pounding on the back of her neck and in her head—her head ached, and it seemed as if every hair on her body was standing up.
“What was that?” Dennis asked, looking over her shoulder at the phone, which was now blank. Laura’s other hand rested on the grip of her SIG Sauer 9 millimeter. She had no memory of that happening—it was pure instinct.
Might as well go all the way. She removed her weapon from the holster and kept it at her side.
Wordlessly, she showed Dennis the phone. “This came up on my phone just now."
“Just now?”
“Yes, just now. On my phone."
“I don’t see anything."
Laura looked again. The image was gone. “The number 8 came up. And a witch—it just came up on the phone and now it’s gone."
“Let me look." He tapped and scrolled. “I don’t see anything."
He was right—it was as if the image never appeared in the first place. It had happened so fast—a blur, the “8,” the witch turning her green face toward Laura—her laugh soundless—before turning back into the wind. “It was a video,” she said. “From The Wizard of Oz."
“Forensics will know where it came from."
“Probably." But she was shaken. How did it appear on her phone? Whoever did this had her number. And now that it was gone, could it be recovered? Was it a practical joke (could have been) or was it something from the bad guy? She’d put away plenty of them, and had been threatened more than once. “Yeah,” she said. “It had to be from the movie."
They strung crime scene tape across the door and also across the entrance to the courtyard.
“Car’s probably junked by now,” Dennis said.
Laura nodded. They already knew about the car. If the killer was brazen enough or stupid enough to drive that car, he might be caught.
But Laura was beginning to think he was very smart.
Smart enough to know who she was, smart enough to reach her by phone—
And send her a message.
Driving back, they were both quiet with their own thoughts. Laura wondered how the Witch Sender (that was what she’d decided to call him—or her) had found her phone
number. Was it someone she knew? Was it a practical joke from someone in her squad? Did it have anything to do with one of her cases?
“Eight,” she said at last. “Why eight?”
“Why the Wicked Witch of the West?” Dennis said.
“Maybe it was Number Eight."
“What? As in victim? The eighth victim? You think this is the work of a serial killer?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“It could be. If he sent the picture to taunt you."
“What about your phone?”
He checked. “Nope. Looks like the guy’s a sexist pig."
Laura nodded. She had a strong feeling it was the guy. She thought about the way someone could have accessed her phone. She remembered, from another case, that someone had accessed a victim’s cellphone by sending ads. The ads had been targeted for the person—stuff that could be informed by the victim’s Facebook tastes or other sites. The ads could reside in the phone, untouched, until someone decided to click on it and dispose of it.
She had received ads. Ads for ski vacations and ads for online and department stores—Wayfair, etcetera. She could have received a fake ad—a GIF aping an ad from a brick and mortar store that was a well-known, branded, shopping venue. Or it could be a political ad or post—depending on the victim’s political bent. Laura knew this but on occasion she’d keep an ad, or forget to delete it, and yes, there were times when she threw caution to the wind and opened one. She always deleted them, though. The ad could have a hidden agenda of taking over her phone, enough so that someone could post the Wicked Witch GIF. They would have found a way in with an ad representing a legitimate store, and once in, it would be Katie Bar the Door.
“Forensics,” she said aloud.
“Yeah,” Dennis said. See if they can find the source."
She knew the trick. Mostly, she had been very careful, deleting ads as they came in, and unsubscribing. But still, the Wicked Witch’s green face haunted her. She was a target. Why? Was it because of Carla Borel? And if it was Carla’s killer, how would he know who she was? Could it be someone she knew—maybe it was just a practical joke—but it felt like she was being harassed by someone connected to Carla Borel, or one of her other cases. “You think this has to do with the Borel Case?” she said.
Ladies Man (Laura Cardinal Series Book 6) Page 3