The house was hidden by old sycamore trees that cast the roof in shade, and by a rock wall that came out almost to the sidewalk. The wall was six feet high. It was one of several houses on the street with walls, and they all looked just a little funny sitting there amid the frank and unguarded others, saying, it seemed: stay out, stay clear, stay away. There was a wrought-iron gate across the driveway opening in the wall, and a buzzer box was fastened to the stones beside it. Under the box was the mail slot.
I got out and went up to the buzzer and pressed it. I have no idea where or if it rang. There was no movement from the house. So I walked along the wall, turned and followed it back until I was stopped by the next-door neighbor’s grapestake fence. It was cool in the shade there and when I looked up through the canopy of fresh May sycamore all I saw of the lowering sun were slivers slanting in from the west.
I backtracked around to the front and tried the other side. There was a very narrow pathway between the neighbor’s rose garden and the rock wall. The rose garden was the most lovingly tended patch of dirt I’d ever seen, weedless and rich brown, with dark green bushes heaving scores of color-drenched flowers into the air. An old man stood in the middle of the garden looking at me. He had baggy tan trousers and a green cardigan sweater and a pair of clippers in one hand. His face and head were brilliantly pale, almost blue white.
I said good afternoon and he nodded.
“I’m interested in the house,” I said, only then realizing there was no for sale sign in the yard.
The old man’s voice was faint. “I lost three Mr. Lincolns last week. Lost two Snowfires, two Deep Purples and a Blue Girl. Did you take them?”
“No, sir. I’m not a thief.”
“How do you do?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“You could be one,” he said, but his voice was full of deliberation, not accusation. “Peg can tell a thief from a pilot.”
I shrugged and smiled stupidly. “Have you seen Collette recently? Ms. Loach, the owner?”
“I can’t really see you.”
“She lives here, I think. She listed the house for sale, but I didn’t see a sign.”
“Pangloss. My wife said I’m a Pangloss. She died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Her sons live there. Two of them. Nice young men—a minister and a salesman.”
“Do you mean Mrs. Loach’s sons?”
“Yes. Here, take this. The body of Christ.”
He held out a brilliant white rose with eight inches of stem. I took it and thanked him.
I looked at the wall beside me. Over the top I could see the roof of the house, and the dense sycamore. A power pole stood just behind the trees and you could see where the line curved upward to the pole top and where the utility company had trimmed the foliage back for safety.
“What are the sons’ names?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you describe them to me?”
“I don’t see them often. I only see up close. They look like sons to me.”
“Maybe I’ll just knock on the door,” I said.
“Thank you,” he said.
I went around to the front and tried the gate. Locked. So I walked around to the other side and climbed over the wall.
The house was wood, stained dark brown. The trim was white. The front yard was grass, healthy and trimmed along the cement drive that led to the garage. No flowers, hedges or shrubs. There was a long porch running along the front. No patio furniture. No flower pots. No birdbath or naked cherub or St. Francis or painted deer. A busy guy’s place, I thought: neat, efficient, low maintenance. Two guys, like the old man said? There were two windows facing the front, both with blinds drawn shut tight I knocked on the door and nothing happened. I waited and knocked again. Then I went around to the guest quarters behind. It looked closed up to me. The porch was littered with leaves and the windows were blocked off by thick curtains I couldn’t see through or around. I tried some windows on the side of the little cottage, but couldn’t see inside so much as an inch. The garage was connected: door locked, window blinds down.
I talked to three more neighbors but gathered little. Suburbs can be the most private places on earth, which is why places like Orange County can harbor some of the worst people in the world. Like Chet. Like The Horridus. One of the neighbors said he thought two young men lived there; the others said it was just one. They all agreed that the occupant(s) came and went in a white Saturn four-door.
Looking back at the place in the rearview I was reminded of the Grantley place in Hopkin. But then, I wanted to be.
On my way home I called the listing agent for the Loach house, to find out anything I could about Collette and the property. What I found out was that the owner had retracted the listing just after the MLS sheet went to print. My spirits sank and I cursed my luck. Then they began to rise. What would be a better reflection of an unstable, changing character than listing and unlisting a home in less than one week? The agent told me that Collette Loach had personal reasons for changing her mind. I asked for her phone number, but the agent said she was under strict orders from Loach not to give it out to anyone—a common practice for busy, private individuals, she informed me. All inquiries were to be handled by the realtor. I begged, pleaded and got nowhere with her. I toyed with the idea of telling her that I was not really an interested buyer, but worried that she might have read the papers or seen the news. I toyed with the idea of impersonating another deputy, say, Johnny Escobedo, but I remembered the look of warning on his face at the café. Plus, believe it or not, I know the difference between a moral act and an immoral one, not that I haven’t in my life chosen the latter. But I did call a friend of mine at the phone company in L.A. He was kind enough to check their statewide for me, only to confirm what I had feared: no Collette Loach with a telephone number in California.
Halfway home it was my turn to get a call. Will Fortune from Idaho, with an edge to his voice.
“Good news, bad news, and maybe news,” he said.
“Bad first.”
“The photographs were partially made by your old Yashica.”
My heart fell and my mouth went dry as sand.
“The good news is, I don’t think the final images were taken exclusively from photographs at all. They’re mainly digitized composites done by someone with a lot of patience, a lot of skill and some pretty good materials to start with—pictures of you and pictures of the girl and pictures of that cave. Our artist shot the final digitized images with a film recorder, thus a photograph. But he was careless. The edge marks from the original photos of the cave—taken with your camera—were still on the negs, just inside the edge marks the film recorder left. It’s a slick piece of work, but he was off by fractions of a millimeter. That fraction was big enough for me to drive a truck through.”
“If the photographs came from my camera, I’m sunk.”
“No. The final image was made up from photographs taken with your camera and photographs that may not have been. It’s image manipulation, pure and simple, and I will testify to that. But it gets better … maybe.”
“Give me the maybe better.”
“The shadow analysis worked beautifully. Those cave shots were taken on January the eleventh of this year. That was a Friday. If you can put yourself somewhere else, it means someone else took them. If someone else took them, you’ve been set up. I’ll testify to that, too. The DA can argue with me all he wants, but he can’t argue with the sun.”
It’s such a strange feeling, to have your heart shooting around inside your body like a balloon with the air escaping.
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“I’d reserve that privilege for Loren if I were you. Good luck.”
Few dates stay in the memory that long, unless they’re special. January the eleventh was all of that: I was with Donna. Newport Marriott Hotel, room 317. Our third time consummating the powerful desire that had grown since those first moments alone toge
ther in a county elevator two months before. I’d told Ishmael I was leaving the office, claiming an interview with a suspected child molester, up in Anaheim. It seemed like a small thing at the time: so little risked and so much gained. I did the actual interview the next Monday and dated the notes three days earlier. The suspected child molester was the man who became our turncoat, Professor Christopher Muhlberger, aka Danny, who blew out his brains in despair by the pool in Chet Alton’s rented Orange house.
It was an easy date to remember, too, because it was my fortieth birthday, and Melinda and Penny had awakened me that morning with a cake bearing a single candle that, when you lit it, whistled “Happy Birthday” over and over, until you blew it out.
Danny wouldn’t be contesting our interview time and date, though Danny’s calendar might. University professors keep pretty tight schedules, but he wouldn’t have stated his true reason for being away from his professional duties—ratting out friends so he’d get a lesser sex-with-minors pop—would he?
Ishmael might not “remember” my leaving at all. Why should he?
If need be, I could call Donna Mason to the stand and humiliate her in front of each and every one of her CNB viewers. And she could tell the truth about Terry Naughton, champion of the little people, where he was and what he was really doing that day. Maybe if I gave her the white rose sitting on the seat beside me, she’d be willing. Here, take this.
TWENTY-FIVE
By late evening I was back in my apartment, with the windows open and the TV turned to CNB. What a program lineup that night: Sheriff Department press conference on The Horridus, followed by an exclusive interview with accused child molester Terry Naughton. Must-see TV.
I checked my e-mail again: no word from I. R. Shroud. I was almost certain he’d blown me off. Cautious. Scared. The acid test was tonight, though: what would he do if he saw me—as I had to assume he would—plastered all over CNB, or one of their sister stations around the country, or in any of thousands of newspapers the next day? Would he think Mal was a profoundly disturbed cop who had ordered up customs of himself for his personal needs? Would he assume the pictures he sold were used against me, or would he assume there was more evidence than just those? Might he speculate that Naughton had been framed by Mal? Worst of all, would he wonder if Mal’s fall was all part of some elaborate covert plan to locate him, The Horridus?
How should I play it? That was the only question I really had an answer to.
I listened to a long message from Donna, who sounded exhausted. She said she’d gotten some dramatic film for the Texas connection story; Welborn was a great guy; the sight of Mary Lou Kidder’s skull had made her cry on camera and she’d never once done that in her life. She said Gene was a monster, and her guts told her that he was our guy. She said she hoped the interview this evening would help somehow. She said she loved me and she’d be home late, but she’d be home. She left her number at the Holiday Inn, but told me she’d only go back there to shower, pack and head out.
I called Johnny, Louis and Frances and explained to each that there was a house on Wytton Street in Tustin that needed checking out. Johnny said a house listed by a woman—then unlisted—was not a priority in any way he could see. I told him to lean on the listing agent for Loach’s phone number, but I could tell he wasn’t going to put it on the fast track. I could tell he was barely hearing this new request, because he was still burdened by my last one. I’d overstepped the bounds of friendship with him, and I knew it. Louis treated me like a senile relative. Frances hung up.
I got an idea and called Sam Welborn in Wichita Falls. He had gone home already, but I talked to a desk sergeant. I told him I was working a case with Welborn and needed the married names, addresses and phone numbers of Wanda Grantley’s sisters and daughters. He said he couldn’t help me just this second. He said every reporter in the state of Texas needed something about the guy out in Hopkin that fed Mary Lou Kidder to his python. I asked him how he knew it was a python and he said a big snake’s a big snake. “Everybody’s got their knickers in a twist,” he said slowly. He took down the information, said he’d give it to Welborn, and that was that.
Half an hour later the press conference started, featuring Jim Wade and Jordan Ishmael, with supporting roles for Frances and Louis. Wade went on first, covering the basics of the search for The Horridus, the department’s frustrations, the almost celestial good fortune for everyone that this “cunning monster” had chosen to “torment” his young victims rather than commit even “greater evil” upon them. He was matter-of-fact, as Jim Wade always was. He was credible because he was calm. He’d done conferences like this a hundred times, and he knew his lines. He was also old and tired. Tired enough to have been fooled by one of his own underlings. I could tell from the expression and posture of Ishmael, sitting to Wade’s right, that he believed he had been chosen. Ish now considered himself the elect. I was certain, too, that he’d be the insiders’ candidate to become the next sheriff-coroner of Orange County.
Yes, there he was, Ishmael, large and feline and relaxed and anointed. When he took the podium to say his piece, I couldn’t help but admit what a presence he had on camera, the way his handsome, green-eyed face so easily commanded: trust me, obey me, join me. He had the allure of a star, the ego of a celebrity and the charisma of a politician. I felt small and venal compared to him. One thing about the Irish, though: we never quit. I pictured Jordan Ishmael going through the photo albums in Ardith’s study. I pictured him surfing through the porn network, searching out a supplier, a purveyor, and finally, a creator. Landing on I. R. Shroud. Question: did Ish know who he was dealing with? I didn’t want to believe it. In spite of my disgust for him, I didn’t want to believe a cop would knowingly use The Horridus to frame up another cop. I would have to ruin him, however. I wouldn’t rest until I ruined him. I knew it, and Ishmael must have known it, too. I needed a record of his log-ons and IRC receptors—his real-time chat destinations. I needed Johnny to come through.
I wondered if there was another way to get what I needed: might Melinda be willing to help me?
What a joke, I thought.
What a sad, bad joke. So funny I’d laughed out loud about it in the café with Johnny. Maybe it was my growing sense of urgency that made it seem at least possible.
“Lieutenant Jordan Ishmael,” he intoned on-screen, “Sheriff-Coroner Department, Orange County. We’ve had a break in our investigation of a suspect calling himself The Horridus. As you just heard from Sheriff Wade, he is wanted for the abduction of three juvenile females in the last two months. We believe that he is partaking in what we call an escalating fantasy and that he will graduate to more serious acts that could logically end in homicide. We are prepared to do anything within our power to see that this does not occur. We understand the fears and anxieties in our communities. We are part of those communities and we share these concerns. This man is preying on young children. Our children are our most precious members, and our future. This is why, beginning two years ago, the Orange County Sheriff Department created a new Crimes Against Youth unit, dedicated to protecting our minors. Some of our best people joined that unit. Since the first Horridus abduction, CAY has been dedicated to apprehending this individual. CAY has been joined by other personnel from other sections of the force. As head of the unit, I can assure you that we are doing everything we can to find this monster and bring him to justice.”
Ishmael turned away from the camera and took a sip of water.
Some of our best people. Head of the unit.
He’d even taken my job.
I felt that kind of blind anger you can’t do anything about. At least nothing immediately. I had to sit there, along with two and a half million other countyans, and take it on the chin from Ishmael, head of CAY, by his own admission one of the department’s best and brightest crimebusters.
“Now, modern law enforcement has two methods of apprehending suspects. The traditional method is to gather evidence, locate the subject
and proceed to interview and perhaps arrest. The other method, which has been gaining favor lately in more sophisticated departments, is one of proaction. In proaction, you take steps that will increase your chances of finding a suspect before he commits another crime. Proaction can be seen as a drawing out of the suspect. Neighborhood policing, neighborhood watch, fugitive publicity and even the holding of press conferences such as this, can all be parts of an effective, proactive campaign. To this end, we now present a composite drawing of the unidentified white male subject who calls himself The Horridus. Louis?”
Condescending prick, I thought.
The screen filled with a poster enlargement of Amanda Aguilar’s drawing. It looked much more human than the photocopy I had smuggled out of my work station, because I was seeing it in color for the first time. The Horridus looked back at me, with his slender face and tall forehead, his short white hair up like the bristles of a brush, his unrevealing eyes, his thin, unhappy mouth. He didn’t look evil. He didn’t even look suspicious. He looked “above average,” whatever that is—intelligent, kempt, unthreatening. Which is one of the reasons he had been able to do what he had done.
I could hear Ishmael’s voice-over: “… white male, late twenties to early thirties, average height and weight, slender build. Brown eyes. Clean shaven. The suspect was last seen wearing a dark blue sport coat and tan trousers. The suspect drives a late-model white van. The suspect has a pronounced case of halitosis. We should also add that the subject has been known to wear facial hair at times, and to change the appearance and style of his hair. If you see someone who answers this description we want you to call the dedicated Sheriff-CAY-Horridus number, one-eight hundred, six-four-seven-S-A-V-E. We ask you not to use nine-one-one. Now, in conjunction with the release of this drawing, we …”
Where Serpents Lie (Revised March 2013) Page 31