“Okay, I’ll phone in for a warrant and we’ll get techies over to toss the place. I’ll need a bunch of social workers, too, but they don’t get in the office till nine.”
“Civilian life,” said Milo.
Weisvogel said, “Ain’t it a party? No idea where Mr. and Mrs. Perv are off to?”
“Nope. She may not be a perv.”
“Whatever.” Weisvogel took out her pad. “Give me their names for a BOLO.”
Milo recited. “Drew Daney. He could also be traveling as Moore Daney Andruson.”
“Anderson e-n or o-n?”
He spelled it. “His wheels are a white Jeep. She drives a Toyota. C-H-E-R-I-S-H.”
“Some name. You don’t think they met up somewhere and split?”
“One of the kids said she was mad at him,” said Milo.
“ ’Cause she figured out what he was about?”
“Don’t know. The kids are aware of what’s been going on. They taunted two girls who were sexually active with him.”
“If missus did figure it out she sure took her sweet time about it, didn’t she?” said Weisvogel. “What do you think, Doctor, one of those see-no-evil pathological denial head cases?”
I said, “Could be.”
“I walked into that room, saw those girls, first thing came to mind was ‘harem.’ God only knows what we’re going to find when they get examined.”
“It sounds as if he was selective. Chose one or two girls who got special privileges. The girl I spoke to thinks she loves him.”
Weisvogel slapped her hands on her hips. Her wrists were as thick as a man’s. “So how long have you been looking at this fine citizen, Milo?”
“Been looking at him for murder for a week or so. The other stuff just came up.”
“The other stuff,” said Weisvogel. “Well, it’s obviously gonna take a long time to unravel. Speaking of which, Doctor, any chance you could be available, therapy-wise? I don’t care how many girls he actually fooled with, they’re all going to be affected, right? The department psychologists are pretty much tied up doing personnel evaluations and we could use some help.”
“Sure,” I said.
She seemed surprised by my easy assent. “Okay, good, thanks. I’ll be in touch. Meanwhile, let’s keep each other posted, Milo.”
“Will do, Judy. Speaking of which, there’s a safe-deposit box on a desk in the bedroom. Cherish left it out in the open next to her instructions. Those instructions were set out on a piece of blotter paper— like a presentation. To me that says looky here, clear invitation to scrutinize.”
“Those instructions,” said Weisvogel, “reminded me of some stupid memo you’d get in the service. She abandons these kids and writes out a manual. Hubby rapes the kids but they need their medicine and their nutritious breakfasts. What a whack job.”
“Be interesting to see what’s in the box, Judy.”
She shook her head. “Before the warrant and the techies get here? Tsk tsk.”
“Daney’s a suspect in six murders, maybe seven. I can make a case for exigent circumstances.”
Weisvogel looked doubtful.
Milo said, “Judy, he took the girls off the property to molest them, so the house won’t be your primary crime scene, his Jeep will. We need to find him asap and there could be something in the box that gets us closer.”
“What, you think the whack job left a map?”
“There are all kinds of maps, Judy.”
“That’s pretty darn enigmatic, Milo. I’m not comfortable messing with the goodies prematurely. All I need is some defense attorney squawking about chain of evidence.”
“It’s in plain view, despite obvious opportunities to conceal,” said Milo. “Ain’t that an invitation to search?”
Weisvogel smiled. “You should’ve gone to law school. Beats honest labor.”
“I could’ve opened the box before you got here, Judy.”
“You certainly could’ve.” Weisvogel stared up at him. Her eyes were green, lighter than Milo’s, almost khaki, with specks of blue scattered near the rims. Unwavering. “What if the box is locked?”
“I’ve got tools.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Milo smiled.
Weisvogel said, “Hell, what if it’s ticking— I know, you’ll bring in a robot. Seriously, it could cause evidentiary problems, Milo.”
“Problems can be solved. Let’s find the bastard before he does more damage, then sort out the details.”
Weisvogel looked over at the house. Clicked her teeth together. Ran her hand through her terrier hair. “So you’re ordering me, as my superior, to open this alleged box.”
“I’m asking you to be a little flexible— ”
“What I’m hearing is you pulling rank on me. Seeing as I’m merely a D-two and you’re brass.”
Weisvogel’s turn to smile. Tobacco teeth.
“I’m brass?” said Milo, as if he’d been diagnosed with a noxious disease.
“Sorry to drop it on you so suddenly,” said Weisvogel. “So am I getting this whole chain-of-command thing right?”
Still smiling.
Milo said, “Yeah, yeah. Someone bitches, it was all my idea.”
“Then I suppose I have no choice,” said Weisvogel, “Lieutenant.”
She joined her detectives in the cube and Milo told me, “Out to the car.”
“For what?”
“Tools.”
“Don’t have any.”
“You’ve got a crowbar. And I’ve got this.” Reaching into a jacket pocket, he brought out a small penlight and a ring of stainless-steel burglar picks.
“You carry those all the time?”
“Some of the time,” he said. “When I think important objects are gonna be left in plain sight.”
* * *
The house was tidy, just as it had been the first time, kitchen scrubbed, hallways vacuumed.
As we entered the master bedroom, I sighted down the hall at the windowless, converted laundry room where Rand had slept.
Milo went into the bedroom and I joined him. The desk sat to the left of the double bed. Plain and rickety, painted brown, a thrift-shop piece that barely managed to fit in Drew and Cherish Daney’s cramped sleeping chamber.
Milo gloved up and checked the closet.
“His duds are here, but hers aren’t. Looks like she packed up for the long haul.”
“And he didn’t.”
“Ain’t that thought-provoking.” He sidled over to the desk. The legs were wobbly and the top slanted downward. A jam glass held pens and pencils. The green blotter paper Cherish had used to frame her instructions was still there. One of its corners was held in place by the box.
Gunmetal safe-deposit box. Extra-large size, the kind banks offered preferred customers.
Milo examined the lock, lifted the box, and inspected the bottom.
“Columbia Savings stamp. They’ve been out of business for years.”
“Surplus, like the school lockers,” I said. “They’re parsimonious.”
He frowned. “All that county money and they’re living like this.”
“If Valerie’s right, there was a lot of conflict about money. Maybe because Drew was siphoning funds and stashing it away.”
“His secret cache. That coulda been bullshit he gave the kid to impress her.”
“I’d bet on reality. He had all the power right from the start with Valerie, didn’t need to prove himself.” I pointed to the box.
He set it down. Looked at the lock again. Examined his picks and selected one. Lifting the box, he hefted. “Kinda light. Maybe Cherish found the dough, took it, and split. The question is, Where’d he go with all his clothes still here?”
“He could’ve gotten to the money first. Picked up on Cherish’s suspicion, sensed the walls closing in and left.”
“With no clothes?”
“He travels light. I’m thinking Vegas because he told Valerie that Cherish wanted to go there.”
“The old projection game? Yeah, Vegas would fit his style, easy for a scumbag to blend in. Okay, enough conjecture. Gimme that.” Pocketing the burglar picks and reaching for the crowbar.
He wedged the point under the box’s lid and bore down. The lid popped up with no resistance and threw him off balance. He fought for equilibrium and I had to swerve to avoid being hit by the bar.
“She left it unlocked,” he said.
“There’s your invitation to search.”
* * *
First came a gray felt cloth, the kind used to keep tarnish off silverware. No money under that, but the box was half-full.
Milo removed each object and placed it on the desk.
Nothing that weighed much.
A yellowed Stockton newspaper clipping, seven and a half years old. Local coverage of Troy Turner’s murder in prison. Troy’s name underlined in red pencil, along with a sentence connecting him to the Malley case. Kristal Malley’s name double underlined.
A pair of woman’s jade drop earrings.
“Any guesses?” he said.
“Maybe Lara’s.”
A black hard-shell eyeglass case. Inside was half a blackened spoon, a cheap lighter, and a crude syringe fashioned from an eyedropper, and a hypodermic needle. Brown gunk soiled the glass. In the red velvet lining of the case, the gold-lettered address of an optometrist on Alvarado.
Under the address, a scrap of paper taped to the inside lid.
Property of Maria Teresa Almedeira.
“Nestor’s mother,” I said. “Nestor swiped it to house his works. After Daney killed him, it became his souvenir.”
Milo reached in the box again and drew out a flimsy knit blouse, royal blue with a horizontal red stripe. Holding it aloft by the sleeves, he checked the label. “Made in Malaysia, size S. This could also be Lara’s.”
I said, “It’s Jane Hannabee’s. She was wearing it the day I met her at the jail. Brand new. Weider was trying to pretty her up.”
“And Daney deprettied her . . .” He examined the garment closely. “Doesn’t look like any blood.”
“He stabbed her in her sleep. She wouldn’t have worn something new. He wrapped her back up in plastic, rummaged through her stuff, took a souvenir.”
“Okay, if the earrings are Lara’s, maybe her mother can verify . . . check this out.”
Photocopy of a county document. Application to foster a child.
The ward in question was a sixteen-year-old female named Miranda Melinda Shulte. Drew and Cherish Daney had both signed the papers but they had never been sent in.
“Number seven,” I said.
Milo rubbed his eyes. “There’s no evidence he killed any other girls. Why her, Alex?”
“She’d only been here a week, but Beth Scoggins described her as aggressive, moving in on Beth’s queen-bee status. Daney needs them to be passive. Maybe she asserted herself too much. Or she thought she wanted his attentions, but when the time came, she resisted.”
“Not playing the game,” he said. “There could be a family out there somewhere, wondering.”
Or even worse, there isn’t.
I said, “When we find him, maybe we can learn where he buried her.”
“Love your optimism.” He placed the foster form on the desk. Stared at it. Returned to the box.
Pharmaceutical bubble pack. Nine bubbles, seven of them empty. Two round, white pills, scored diagonally. Stamped “Hoffman” atop the midline, “1” below it.
The label on the pack said: Rohypnol, 1 mg (flunitrazepam).
“Party pills,” I said.
Milo said, “Next.”
Out came Rand Duchay’s C.Y.A. I.D. tag. The photo showing Rand looking baffled.
Last, at the bottom, a manila envelope not much larger than a playing card, fastened by a string and eyelet. Milo’s gloved hands fumbled with the string. He cursed, finally got the string uncoiled. Brought the envelope close to the desk and shook it out carefully.
Out tumbled a tiny bracelet. Square, white plastic cubes strung on a pink thread.
Seven cubes. A letter on each.
K R I S T A L
CHAPTER 43
Like the cement cube, the converted garage had a single window. No larger than the cube, but with only two beds, it felt a lot more spacious.
I said, “Valerie, where did Drew keep his money? It’s important.”
She sat on her bed, I was three feet away in a pink plastic chair.
Real bed, not a bunk. Wood-grain headboard embossed with vines and flowers. Matching chest of drawers with the same embellishment. A threadbare gray rug covered most of the cement floor.
Particle board partitions created a corner bathroom, complete with shower, shampoo, hotel soaps, and lotions still sealed.
A host of stuffed animals on Valerie’s bed. Monica’s bed, across the room, had only a single blue teddy bear.
Clear hierarchy. Lodgings for the preferred ward and her next-in-line. What reason had Drew given Cherish? What had she been thinking?
Valerie’s black hair was shiny-wet. She played with a towel that said Sheraton Universal. Her eyes were pond pebbles.
I said, “In a box? Did he keep his money in a gray metal box?”
The pebbles rounded around the edges as she looked away. Constricted pupils. Her hands danced on her knees.
“We found the box, Valerie, but there was no money in it, so I guess Drew made all that up.”
“No! I saw it.”
“You saw the money?”
She avoided my eyes.
I shrugged. “If you say so.”
“It was there.”
“It’s gone, now.”
“Bitch!”
“You think Cherish took it.”
“She stoled it.”
“It wasn’t hers?”
“We got it! At the nonprofits!”
Fire in her eyes. Devotion. Beth Scoggins had recounted how Daney had turned off after her abortion. It had been days since Valerie’s abortion and she believed Daney still cared.
I said, “Guess Cherish found where he hid it.”
Silence.
“How do you think she found out?”
Shrug.
“No idea at all, Valerie?”
“Cleaning. Prolly.”
“Cleaning where?”
She got up, paced the length of the room, then the periphery. Passed Monica’s bed and tucked in a corner of blanket.
Playing housekeeper.
She circled the room again.
“Cleaning where?” I said. “If we’re going to find your money, we have to know where.”
She stopped. Paced some more. Said something I couldn’t hear.
“What’s that?”
Another inaudible whisper.
I walked over to her. “Where, Valerie?”
“Underneath.”
“Underneath the house?”
Silence.
“Is there really an underneath, Valerie?”
“Here!” Running to her own bed and slapping the covers. Slapping them. Pounding them. “I cleaned real good but she sneaked in! Bitch!”
* * *
I returned her to Judy Weisvogel’s custody. Milo gave me a set of gloves and the two of us moved the bed away from the corner. The cement floor bordering the garage’s northern wall had been patched years ago, some sort of grayish sealant slopped generously over cracks and crumbles. Grease spots shining through the white evoked the room’s original function. In the corner, the sealant stain was scored by four straightedge cuts. Shaped roughly like a square. Two foot square, scoring the floor.
Flush with the floor, no handle or protrusions, no way you’d notice if you weren’t looking.
Cherish Daney had noticed. There were all kinds of ways to houseclean.
Milo got down and stared at the seams. “Pry marks.”
He worked the crowbar into the spot. The slab pulled away easily. Underneath was a dark space, three or so feet deep.
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