“Thanks for the information. Sorry to have disturbed you,” Maude said, turning to leave the house, mentally rejecting an unbidden picture of the woman in a thong. “You have a good day, now.”
The trip to Inman was a short distance, not more than five miles. The small towns had grown, bringing their outer boundaries close to each other, leaving very little unpopulated space along the way.
She found Robert Dawson’s personnel address easily, just an empty lot where some kids about ten or twelve years old were playing kickball. One of the kids came over to her when Maude called out to him. She had thought he would run off, but he stood about twenty feet from the car, picking his nose, unconcerned.
“I’m not going to bother you, I’m a cop.” she said. “Just want to know how long this lot’s been vacant. How long you guys been using it to recreate?”
The kid listened to her for a minute and held out his hand. “What’s it worth to you?” he asked, throwing his shoulders back as he had no doubt witnessed some gang banger pose.
“How about I don’t get out of this car and kick your butt?” Maude countered, giving the boy the eye.
“You old witch, you could probably do it too.” the kid said, grinning. “They tore the house down about four years ago, was going to build something on it, but I guess they forgot about it. Why you want to know?”
“Looking for the man used to live in the house. Robert Dawson. Know him?” Maude answered.
“Nah. Nobody lived here even before they tore it down,” the boy said. “Empty before I started school.”
“Thanks kid. What’s your name?” she queried.
“Puddin-tane, ask me again, I’ll tell you the same,” the kid said smart aleck-y, running off.
Maude laughed out loud. It had been years since she heard that old retort. Only in a small town, she thought.
The lawyer’s office in Stillwater was part of a large, three-story building near downtown. The structure had been there for a while, the architecture old fashioned, but classy.
“They better have an elevator in there,” Maude grumbled. “I am not climbing stairs even if I have to pay someone to carry me.”
The clock on the dash of the rental car told her that three-thirty was just a few seconds away. Most lawyers made their money early in the day, but she hoped that Johnson and Grimble were still open for business. The name on the business card said George W. Grimble, a stuffed ivy-league shirt if his name fit his personality. Maude came prepared to do battle to get information, but she hoped for an easy victory.
The elevator was slow, but at least it worked and was in good condition, the stainless steel shined to a high gloss, buttons cleaned of fingerprints. The cables jerked as it made it to the third floor, the shaft showing its age and use.
As she stepped off the elevator, Maude saw the entrance to Johnson and Grimble Law Firm near the middle of the hallway. She looked for a bathroom nearby, but the hall had no such convenience.
“Guess I’ll just have to hold it,” Maude said to herself. “I’ll probably get bladder cancer from all the times I need to go pee and can’t. If I was a man I could have just hung it out at the old Dawson mansion. Sometimes it’s tough being a woman. Guess I could wear a skirt and hike it up when I needed to go, but I’d get caught. I can see the headlines-“Madison, Texas detective, arrested in Oklahoma for indecent exposure”. That would be my luck for sure, she thought, laughing for a minute at the idea.
The door was just ahead and Maude turned the handle and entered a receptionist’s office that smelled of burned popcorn. The woman behind the desk was in her forties, a little overblown, with orange colored hair and bright-red lipstick.
Maude pulled her shield from her pocket and showed it to the woman who was busily picking out burned kernels from her bag of microwaved popcorn.
“Do you have an appointment?” The secretary asked without looking up. She talked between bites of popcorn and chewed loudly each time she popped a new kernel between her lips.
“No, no appointment,” Maude replied. “I need to ask Mr. George Grimble some questions about a house he sold for a client. Won’t take much of his time.”
“He won’t see you without an appointment,” the woman said disinterestedly.
“Would you please pick up the phone and ask him?” Maude requested nicely.
“Sure, but won’t do you any good,” the red-head answered, steadily pushing popcorn into her mouth and occasionally choking on a tough piece.
“Mr. Grimble, this is Daisy,” she said, after picking up the cordless phone and clicking a number. “There’s someone outside that wants to ask you some questions. She’s a detective. Oh...okay, I’ll send her in.”
“Well, you caught him in a rare mood!” Daisy said, finally looking up from the popcorn bag. “Go through the door and turn left.”
“Thank you Daisy and just so you know, you have a popcorn hull right up here,” Maude said, pointing to her two front teeth. “And your lipstick is greasy. Might want to take care of that.” Maude said, going through the door, chuckling to herself.
“I get’em, don’t I,” she said aloud.
George Grimble was not at all what she expected. She guessed his age to be around fifty years or so. About five-feet four and bald in front, he had a long strip of dyed black hair plastered into a circle from the crown of his head to a comb-over that swept across his forehead, and finally came to roost above his very pink left ear. He stared at her through small, round glasses perched on the end of his bulbous, overlarge nose and smiled sweetly.
Thinking that this was her day for clowns, Maude was prepared to hear anything that might come out of Grimble’s mouth. She hoped that at least some of her questions might be answered before leaving the office.
“Mr. Grimble,” she said politely, “My name is Maude Rogers, and I am a homicide detective from Madison, Texas, looking for a killer of women.”
“But what can I have to do with that?” The lawyer asked. “I don’t practice criminal law.”
“No, but you sold a house some years back that I believe belonged to the man I am searching for. The house was the Dawson place outside Cushing, and the suspect lived there when he was a child. Does the name Robert Dawson mean anything to you?”
“Miss...Detective Rogers, I have to honor client privileges, and can’t give you the information you want. I wish I could help you, but it is out of the question.”
“Mr. Grimble,” Maude said firmly, “there are dead women around central and south Texas that might take umbrage against your refusal to help find their killer. Now that I think of it, attorney-client privileges don’t have to do with public record. I haven’t seen the recorded sale in the clerk’s office, but I’ll bet Robert Dawson was the seller of that property. Of course I can go to the county building and find out these things tomorrow, but you will be saving me some valuable time if you help me today.”
George Grimble was indeed a small, unprepossessing man. All his life he had yearned to be taller, with more hair, but of course, that would never happen. He also yearned for tall, slender women whose height made him feel like a bigger man. Maude Rogers cut a striking pose leaning over his desk, her curly hair and blue eyes complementing long legs encased in black polyester slacks.
Grimble’s eyes reluctantly left her legs and returned to the white polo shirt Maude wore under a hound’s-tooth print blazer. The wiry strength of the woman pleased him immensely. He wanted her to like him.
“Detective, I can tell you that Robert Dawson was still a young man when his parents had their unfortunate death in the mountains of Colorado, and the memories of his life within the house made him even sadder after his parents died. I did handle the sale for him after he moved away. I don’t recall where he moved, but we can look in the files. I see nothing wrong with giving you an address.” He quickly buzzed his receptionist and requested a file be brought to his office. .
Maude was astounded! She didn’t have to get rough with the man. He was actu
ally willing to help her locate Dawson. Immediately she wondered what the lawyer was up to. Maude’s experience with attorneys was blighted by the rude, irascible behavior she had encountered from scum-bag ambulance chasers in both Chicago and Madison.
When nothing more was forthcoming from the little man, Maude thanked him for his help, and waited for the receptionist to bring the information he’d requested from archived files, however, things got a little awkward while they both sat silent. Each move she made got a response from the lawyer: first a smile, then a nod, once, even a wink. She sat down in the chair across from him and crossed her legs, wanting a cigarette.
The lawyer continued looking her up and down with approval. Keeping quiet in tense situations had always been difficult for her, and now Maude found herself wanting to hum, or sing, or do something foolish while she waited in discomfort for the paperwork. Instead she turned her head once and caught George Grimble looking at her with unconcealed desire. Maude was flabbergasted.
Here I am, she thought, in the middle of a murder investigation, and a bald little man hopes to have his way with me. Will this dreadful day never end? Unfortunately, her need for the information Grimble had was greater than her desire to ‘bust him out’, so she squirmed under his gaze, and gave him a toothy smile.
Within minutes the receptionist entered the office and gave the attorney a page from a thin file that she kept in her hands. Maude took out her notebook and wrote down a city and street in Arizona that Dawson had listed as his home address. Sweating under the collar of her polo shirt from the lawyer’s rapt gaze, Maude wasted no time getting out of the office once she had what she needed. Grimble tried to get her attention as she scooted through the door, but she ignored his request to stay and talk. With not even a by-your-leave, she quickly vacated the building.
Chapter 23
The toilet salesman couldn’t get the kid under control at the drive-in restaurant in Philly. For a while it was touch and go. It took Ridge to do it, just like always. Dawson couldn’t tie his shoes without help. The trick was, don’t let them see you looking worried. Draws their attention. That old woman was smart, he’d give her credit. Found them after all his careful planning. He wondered what gave them away.
The guy with the dark skin and curly hair in the broad’s rent house. What a ride he was. Personally Ridge preferred real women, but any old port in a storm he always said!
Standing in the doorway, looking her in the face, he considered cutting her nosey nose off and stuffing it in her big mouth. He had been calm, acted upset at being questioned. What an act! Told her what she wanted to hear. He made it up as he went. Thought she would trap him. Stupid cop. Knew what he’d do with her when the time came.
Bobby screamed out for anyone to hear. “No! Don’t hurt her. Go away.”
“Shut up you sniveling whiner. I’m in charge here!” Ridge was adamant. The kid had to go.
It was that way since he was fifteen, a big gawky teenager with acne and bottle-thick glasses. No personality. The kid had needed a woman. He had imaginary girlfriends, sure, but he needed the real thing. Laying down on the levee by the river one day, crying like a two year old, screaming, wanting to be big and good-looking, not such a putz. Got up and went home, pulled off his clothes in front of the mirror. Wanted to look like his daddy. Wanted to be a stud like the old man! Ha!
The picture was on the dresser in the old man’s room; the picture with the white, captain’s hat on his dark hair; him leaning against the mast of the sixty-foot Hunter. Handsome man. Bobby wanted to be like him, loving all the ladies except his wife. Lots of muscle, working out did that.
Bobby knew about his daddy’s women. Saw him one day, top down on the car, big-breasted woman, rubbing herself all over him. Bobby was at a stoplight on his bicycle, Daddy was waiting for the light to change. Bobby hid behind another car and listened to the old man talking to the woman.
“Elridge, sweetie, where are you taking me?” She had simpered the question, while running her hands through her bleached blonde hair.
“You’ve been a bad girl. It’s straight to bed for you,” his daddy had told the woman, fondling her, not caring who saw.
The woman giggled as they drove off from the light, neither of them noticing the hungry-eyed boy behind the thick glasses and acne. Bobby had slipped and fallen from his bicycle onto the sidewalk next to the street. All he could do was lay there and cry.
The kid had put the picture of the old man on the dresser and stood beside it, the mirror reflecting the failure that lived in the boy’s skin. He pumped up his right arm, looking for the rise of a muscle, hating that there was nothing but fat meat. He wanted to be what the old man was, knowing it was never going to happen. But he wanted it so bad! Bad enough he’d do anything to make it happen.
“You can be like him. Better than him.” the voice was strong. Tough.
“What? Who said that?” Bobby’s crying stopped. “How can I be like him?”
“Let me out. I’m coming out” the voice had commanded, hurting Bobby’s throat.
“No, I…am scared.” Bobby whispered.
“GET OUT OF THE WAY, LOSER,” the voice yelled.
He stood taller, with his shoulders back, his legs spread. Running his hand through his dark hair he pushed it back from his forehead and removed the thick glasses, disdainfully pitching them into the trash can. Without hesitation he went into the bathroom, pulled out the box of contacts that had never been worn and placed a pair in his eyes as if it were a familiar task.
Inside the closet a stylish, new red shirt laid next to new basketball shoes. He pulled them from the closet and returned to the mirror, still naked. Staring at the reflection, he smirked at the new image. A loud peal of laughter sprang from his mouth as he yelled, “I’M FREE!”
Ridge remembered it well. What a great day it had been to be free of the sniveling kid after living for years in his worthless hide. Getting laid had been Ridge’s first goal. He knew Daddy Elridge got his share of women. He would follow his old man’s example. Take what he wanted and never mind the rest. Nothing was too good for Ridge... Roberts. Yeah, Ridge Roberts. The old man would die if he heard it. The joke was on him.
The first girl he met thought she was seeing Bobby, and was prepared to diss him if he looked at her, but something had changed. The guy was taller and better looking with nice eyes. His hair was different too, and even the acne was less noticeable. The girl called him Bobby, but he didn’t act like Bobby, for the next thing she knew, he had his arm around her.
Definitely, he was not Bobby. He hurt her a little when he took her under the football bleachers, but she liked his roughness. Afterward she wondered just who he was, and hoped she would see him again.
That year Bobby told his parents he wanted to move to a new school. He liked the idea of public school better than the private academy--more good-looking girls went to regular school.
The old lady never hit him again, even though sometimes Bobby wished she would still hug him. The girls he forced to have sex with him often forgave his behavior when he showed special attention to their breasts, nuzzling them until the girls moaned with pleasure against him.
No one knew Ridge, except Bobby. It was a secret they both kept protected from everyone, especially family.
When Bobby was twenty and needed a cover for Ridge’s extracurricular, and sometimes violent activities, Robert Dawson, the last personality of the trio was invented by the other two. It was mandatory that a calm presence with no wants or desires other than to be successful also lived in the body. Dawson applied for a job in a shoe store and worked there until his parents died.
He was immediately hired by Porcelain Worx after convincing them he had the ability to sell a product. He also knew how to keep the kid under control by selling him on being calm instead of crying or whining when he got upset. Dawson didn’t have any real thoughts, it was just the part of Bobby that functioned under pressure and knew how to get along with people. Dawson was a hollow
man.
Chapter 24
Detective Joe Allen was busy after Maude left Philadelphia. His flight home was spent sleeping, trying to catch up on the time he had spent with the redheaded receptionist from Porcelain Worx. At Maude’s request, he had stayed through the next day, being available should Dawson return. Of course, he and Maude both knew that the psycho was not coming back to the factory, and after a few hours, Joe felt he could safely leave and catch an early flight back home.
He had an opportunity to see his kids a few days later because his ex-wife was coming into Madison for personal business. Joe didn’t want to know what she was doing. The less he knew about her, the better he got along. Still, a chance to see his kids was worth the forced visit with his ex, or anyone else if need be.
The plane arrived on time, but no one was there to meet him. He didn’t mind too much because Susan Lucas kept surfacing in his thoughts, the memory of that one amazing night he spent with her still fresh. He hoped she might be available for going out on the town. The red-haired receptionist had been a nice diversion, but Joe had called it an early evening and left her at the door of her apartment. Just wasn’t in the mood to take it further, even though she had made it plain that he was welcome to stay.
Joe had always been a loyal man to the women he dated, always more committed than they were, like with his ex-wife. He had been caught unawares by her need to leave him. He still didn’t fully understand what went wrong with his marriage, but at least he wasn’t still staying home brooding over it.
Early the next morning Joe showed up on the job, well-rested after a good night’s sleep. Susan had made other plans for the evening, so he went straight home after work, and then off to bed early to think about the murder cases that needed closure. He still had to interview the husband of Giselle Farouk, the pawn shop owner who had allegedly strangled the homeless woman, Diane Jones.
Medawa Farouk voluntarily turned himself into police headquarters the same day that his wife had been taken downtown. According to Fat Frieda, the man had made little of his wife’s statement, saying Giselle was a liar, for he had never touched the woman who was strangled. He also said he knew nothing of a bracelet missing from his shop.
The Maude Rogers Murder Collection Page 20