Jamison should tell them to hold off, but he wouldn’t do that, either. Not because he didn’t know better, but because the victim’s father was a big man in this county. He’d want his daughter out of her cold, snowy grave as quickly as possible. He wouldn’t give a bloody damn about evidence until later, when he had time to think about it and wonder who had put her there. Then he’d take the police department to task for not being more professional, probably lecture the chief, who would in turn give Jamison a public reprimand and assign him to some training, but in private, tell him to forget it. McQuaid knew all this, because he’d been in Jamison’s position, or something like, more times than he could remember. Case like this, you were damned if you did, damned if you didn’t.
The medics were still scooping the snow away from the body when two more police cruisers arrived, one spilling out a pair of cops, the other a single. For a few minutes, the three of them and Jamison huddled together, while Jamison gave instructions. They broke, one of the cops going for a camera, a second to set up the perimeter tape, the third to watch the techs. Jamison went to his car, where he got on the radio again. Ten minutes later, a car pulled up and a woman got out. Meg got out of the cruiser and went toward it. There was a brief flurry of hugging, then the woman hustled her daughter into the car and backed up down the road to where she could turn around without getting stuck.
The car was barely out of sight when a pickup arrived and a burly man in a thick coat with a fur collar and a cap with earflaps jumped out. Arms flailing, he half-ran, half-stumbled through the snow to where the medics were lifting the body onto a gurney. Joyce Dillard’s daddy, the town councilman. The one who had posted the forty-grand reward that the two girls would probably split. No doubt Meg and her mother were discussing the possibility of a newly enhanced college fund at this very moment, while back at Joe’s, Annie was probably counting her money, and counting her lucky stars.
Well, what the hell. Somebody had to find the body and collect the reward. If it hadn’t been for the girls spinning out and sliding into the ditch, Dillard might have laid there under the snow until spring thaw.
The car was getting warm, and McQuaid turned down the heater a notch, watching the scene, trying not to feel the worry rising in his gut, concentrating on the likely scenarios, the possible explanations for what had happened here. Joyce Dillard might have gone out for a winter evening’s walk, stumbled into the ditch, bounced her head off a rock, and lay there until she froze to death. Hypothermia would come fast, this time of year. And even a light snow would have blanketed the body to the point where it wouldn’t be noticed. He held his hands out to the stream of warm air pushed out by the heater. Things like that happened in Kansas in the winter. People went outdoors, got lost, got hurt, froze to death.
But there were other possibilities, criminal possibilities. Maybe she was walking along the road and was struck by a vehicle. Hit-and-run. That happened all the time, too. Icy roads, soccer mom in a hurry to pick up the kids, teenager blabbing on her cell phone, wino driving drunk. Driver hits pedestrian, driver panics, speeds away. Pedestrian pitches into the ditch, snow falls. The body isn’t discovered for days, weeks. By that time the evidence is washed away by snowmelt, the driver gets his or her vehicle repaired in KC or Omaha, and that’s the end of that. Case goes cold, gets shoved to the back of the file drawer, unsolved.
Or maybe—
Or maybe it didn’t happen that way. China might argue for another scenario, if she were here. She’d say that maybe Joyce Dillard had named Jess Myers as the one who killed the Strahorns, and that he somehow got wind of this. He figured he’d better plug the leak before it got worse, before Joyce went to the cops. So he’d killed her and left her in the ditch, where he figured she wouldn’t be found for a good long time.
McQuaid’s head ached, and he cracked the window an inch, letting in some fresh air. He knew China all too well. Once she got her teeth into something like this, she was a bulldog. She wouldn’t leave the story there. She would point out that if Myers killed Dillard because she had told Sally what she knew, maybe he wasn’t finished. Maybe he couldn’t afford to be. So he’d headed for Texas. He’d gone to Lake City, where he killed Leslie, on the chance that Sally had shared Joyce’s information with her sister. And now (China would point out) he was in Pecan Springs. He was looking for Sally.
Speculation. All speculation. But it was possible, certainly. And McQuaid had learned a long time ago that when the ifs and maybes began organizing themselves into a pattern, it was time to get serious about the possibilities.
Four deaths. The Strahorns, then Joyce Dillard, then Leslie. There was a pattern. The next piece in the pattern was Sally.
Feeling suddenly cold, McQuaid plugged his beer can into the drink holder and reached for his cell phone. He glanced at his watch. It felt like midnight, but it was just past seven twenty. He was hoping that the Pecan Springs police had already picked Sally up. In custody, she’d be safe. But if the police hadn’t detained her or had decided not to hold her, she would be with China this evening. Which would put China in jeopardy, as well. He’d better let her know that Joyce was dead, ASAP. She and Sally had to be careful. A lot more careful.
But China wasn’t picking up. Sharply disappointed, he left a message—urgent, because that’s how he felt.
“China, listen to me, and listen hard. I can’t talk to Joyce Dillard, because she’s dead in a roadside ditch, just outside Sanders. I’m at the scene. There’s no word yet on the cause of death, but I’m beginning to think you might be right about Myers. I want you and Sally—if she’s not in police custody—to hunker down at Ruby’s and stay there. You hear me? Go to Ruby’s and stay there. When the cops finish with Sally, she should stay there, too. Tomorrow, as well. I don’t want her out on the streets. Call me as soon as you can. I may have an update on Dillard.”
As an afterthought, he added, in a softer tone. “Love you, babe. I’m glad you got the kids out of the way. Be careful, please. I’ve decided that Charlie Lipman’s Omaha job can wait. I’ll change my flight and be home as quick as I can.”
Be careful. Yeah, right, he thought, as he clicked off. Telling China Bayles to be careful was like adding sticks of dry wood to a fire. She had a bad habit of overlooking the risks when she was focused on something that totally captured her attention. Like the time, just a few months ago, when she was visiting a Shaker village in Kentucky and got mixed up in a murder investigation. But in this situation, he had to trust her and hope for the best. As far as he was concerned, best-case was Sally getting picked up by the Pecan Springs police and warehoused in an interrogation room, a cell, even. Anywhere Myers couldn’t get at her.
Which led to another phone call, this time to the Pecan Springs police. After a three-minute wait, he got through to Sheila Dawson, who was still in the office.
“Mike McQuaid here, Sheila. Have you picked up Sally?”
“I wish,” Sheila said crisply. “You’ve heard why we’re looking for her?”
“China told me,” McQuaid replied. “A person of interest in her sister’s homicide.” Leslie’s image rose up in his mind, and he bit back the flash of pain that came with it. “Can you tell me anything more than that?”
“Not much,” Sheila replied warily. “Haven’t heard any of the details from Lake City yet.”
McQuaid pictured her sitting behind the desk in her utilitarian, unfeminine office, no family photos or trinkets. Not even an artificial plant or a drape to soften the severe plastic blinds at the window. Just a very beautiful, very sexy, entirely self-contained woman, pretty much a renegade and an aloof loner who lived for her job. That the job was occasionally dangerous was only an added bonus for her. Or maybe danger was the bottom-line reason she did what she did. She and Blackie were uncomfortably paired where that was concerned. For Blackie, law enforcement had been his family’s family business for three generations, and he was a family man. He had a couple of older boys by a previous marriage, but he’d like to hav
e another family. He also liked to have the guys around, poker partners, fishing buddies—the more the merrier. Sheila wasn’t keen on kids, and she wasn’t the kind of woman who’d be waiting at the kitchen door, eager to fry up the big mess of catfish that her husband and his friends brought home. McQuaid had been glad to hear that she and Blackie were back together again, if that’s what they both wanted. But he wouldn’t lay a nickel on their long-term success.
Sheila cleared her throat. “I can tell you that we’ve got a stakeout on the car Sally was driving.”
McQuaid shifted the phone from one ear to the other. “Brian’s car?”
“Yes. It’s parked in the far corner of the Congregational church lot, behind McMasters Office Supply. Ruby happened to notice it. We’ve had it covered since midafternoon, but there’s been no sign of Sally. We’re watching it for the rest of the night. In the morning, I’ll consider other options. Just letting you know that the car may be out of commission for a while.”
McQuaid felt a sharp stab of uneasiness. “Any indication of violence?”
“Nothing we can see through the windows, although we haven’t gotten into the vehicle yet. Looks like Sally simply parked it, locked it, and took the keys. The bus station is within walking distance. They’ve got an automated ticket machine for short-haul riders, though, and bus traffic is heavy right now, with students going home for the holidays. No way to tell whether she got on a bus, and if she did, which way she went.” Sheila paused. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where she might go.”
McQuaid leaned forward against the steering wheel. The car, abandoned. No sign of Sally. What if China was right, and this guy Myers was a serious threat? What if he had already caught up with her? Grabbed her, forced her to leave Brian’s car in the lot, took her off somewhere. What if—
“Sheila, listen to me. This guy who’s stalking her. The one China told you about. He isn’t your ordinary garden-variety stalker.”
“No such thing,” she countered caustically. “Not in my experience.”
McQuaid ignored that. “His name is Myers, Jess Myers.”
“China told me. An ex-boyfriend.”
“Maybe. But more than that, he was a suspect in her parents’ killings. They were murdered. Shot to death, in Sanders, Kansas, ten years ago.”
A taut silence. He knew he’d gotten her attention. Sheila was a professional, adept at putting pieces together. She’d make the connection. “Was a suspect,” she repeated. “The police couldn’t come up with a case against him?”
“I talked to the lead investigator this evening. The shooter took the gun and quite a bit of cash. Myers had done some remodeling work in the Strahorns’ house—I’m guessing his prints were around the place. But no. They couldn’t make a case. Or at least they didn’t.”
Be fair. Tell her that Sally was a suspect, too, nudged the voice in the back of his head. But that was irrelevant. It would only muddy the waters.
“Listen, Sheila,” he said forcefully. “There’s more.”
“Yeah? I’m listening.”
“Okay. I’m in Sanders right now. I came here to talk to a woman named Joyce Dillard. Dillard recently told Sally that she knew who killed the Strahorns. She gave Sally a name. Sally wouldn’t tell me who it was, but she claimed that Joyce knew the location of the murder weapon—a Luger that belonged to Sally’s father. I came here to interview Dillard and try to persuade her to tell me what she told Sally. I hoped to get what she knew about the gun, as well. But she’s dead. I’m looking at the scene right now. A couple of girls found her in a ditch, buried in the snow.”
Sheila put it together quickly. “And now the sister—Leslie—is dead, too,” she said in a considering tone. “Did the sister know Myers?”
“They all lived in the same small town. The Strahorns, Myers, Sally, Leslie, Joyce Dillard.” He swallowed. “Look, Sheila. I don’t want Sally out where he can get his hands on her. When you find her, keep her in custody for as long as you can.”
“You bet,” Sheila said. “Anything else?”
He wanted to say, You could lock China up, too, while you’re at it, but he didn’t. Now wasn’t the time for bad jokes. “Just find her,” he said emphatically. “And don’t let her go.”
“We’ll do our best. Thanks, McQuaid.” Sheila broke the connection.
McQuaid clicked off the call, leaned back, and picked up his beer can. He was making a mental list of things he needed to do—call Charlie Lipman, call the man he was supposed to interview tomorrow, call the airline to get an early morning flight out of Kansas City—when Jamison rapped on the passenger-side window, opened the door and slid in, bringing with him a rush of damp cold and the smell of snow, wet wool, and Joe’s onions.
“How’s it going out there?” McQuaid asked.
“About like you’d think.” Not looking at him, Jamison yanked off his leather gloves, finger by finger, and held his hands to the heater, rubbing them. “Ugly, isn’t it?”
“Never gets any prettier,” McQuaid agreed. They didn’t have to say that it was the scene that was ugly, and not the weather. They watched as the medics hoisted the gurney into the ambulance and closed the doors. The father trudged to his car, and both vehicles drove off. The medics didn’t run the ambulance emergency lights. No emergency now. Joyce Dillard had already confronted the greatest emergency of her life, and there had been no one around to rescue her. The two men contemplated this truth in silence.
A moment later, the other patrol cars pulled away, as well. All that was left in the blowing, moon-shadowed night was Jamison’s cruiser, the red pickup truck, and the yellow tape squaring off a patch of frozen ditch.
McQuaid reached over and turned the heater up a notch. “You on duty?”
“Nope. Quit at five. Council doesn’t pay overtime. We’ll be back tomorrow morning. Maybe we’ll find something else in that ditch. Likely not, though,” he added without inflection.
McQuaid agreed, although there was a chance. A piece of broken mirror or headlight, a strip of chrome. If it was a vehicular homicide, which maybe it wasn’t. There was still the possibility that Dillard had been out for a walk and fallen accidentally.
He leaned over the seat and pulled up another beer. “You’ve gotta be thirsty.” He handed the can to Jamison, who took it, popped the top, and drank briefly.
“Thanks,” Jamison said, turning to McQuaid. His eyes were cop’s eyes, eyes that had seen more than anybody wanted to see, ought to see, in a human lifetime. But there was no anger there, only weariness and a measuring appraisal that was neither opinion nor judgment. McQuaid recognized the look. He had seen it in the eyes of other law enforcement officers, especially those who had been on the force for a couple dozen years. He had seen it in his own eyes, in his mirror. Sally had seen it, too. Cold eyes, she’d said. Fish eyes. A cold, dead fish.
“You said your ex-wife wanted you to talk to Ms. Dillard,” Jamison said. “Why?”
Time to come clean, McQuaid thought. Nothing to be gained by holding back now. Maybe something to lose if he didn’t.
“I told you some of it,” he said, “but there’s more. Sally came back to Sanders recently with the idea of writing a book about her parents’ murders. That’s when you saw her.”
Jamison swiveled to look at him. “You gotta be shittin’ me,” he said incredulously. “A book?”
McQuaid liked him for that. “Yeah, I know. But hear me out. She was working at the KC Star and decided to try for a story, or maybe a book, so she came to town to talk to people about the case.”
“She didn’t talk to me. Didn’t talk to any of our guys, so far as I know.”
McQuaid chuckled. “Yeah. Well, maybe you were at the bottom of her list. Anyway, when she got here, she ran into Joyce Dillard. Joyce told her that she had an idea who killed the Strahorns and what happened to the gun. She named a name, but Sally wouldn’t tell me who it was. She wanted me to talk to Joyce and see what I could get out of her.” He paused. “That’s it, Ja
mison. That’s why I’m here. I don’t have a name to give you, and I don’t know where the gun is.”
“Yeah.” Jamison grunted. “But I got this feeling, McQuaid. You wouldn’t have driven down here from Omaha in a blizzard just on the chance of a chat. What else you got?”
McQuaid drained the last of his beer. “Myers,” he said. He crumpled the empty can and tossed it over his shoulder. It landed with a chink in the open bag with the rest of the beer on the backseat. “Jess Myers. Suspect in the Strahorn shootings. You seen him around in the past day or two?”
“Myers.” Jamison’s voice held an odd tone. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead wearily. “Can’t say that I have. How come?”
“Because Sally showed up in Texas day before yesterday, in the town where I live. She was looking for a place to stay. Myers showed up shortly afterward, looking for her. My wife talked to him on the phone, twice, once late last night. She said he sounded threatening. And Sally was scared.”
“Scared, was she? Why am I not surprised?” Jamison pushed his lips in and out. “She say why?”
“No, and my wife didn’t push it—although she was concerned enough to ask the county sheriff, a friend of ours, to detour a deputy past our place in the night. Then this afternoon, she learned that Sally’s sister, Leslie, is dead. Lake City, Texas, where she lived. Homicide, last couple of days, maybe even more recent.”
No need to tell Jamison the rest of it, that Sally was a person of interest. And anyway, the more he thought about this, the more he thought it had no relevance, except as an inconvenience to Sally (from Sally’s point of view) or from his point of view, as a way to get her into police custody, where she would be safe. She wasn’t the one the Lake City police wanted. They ought to be talking to Myers, find out what he knew about Leslie’s death.
Holly Blues Page 19