“Yeah, hence that.” Mills scratches his chin. The stubble sounds like sandpaper. He feels pale. Even now under a brilliant sun and its reddening rays. “But before she henced her way into the city,” Mills continues, “she was a TV reporter. She got a job at one of the local stations as soon as she got out of college. Again, Daddy doing the bidding.”
“I don’t recognize her from TV.”
“Well, she didn’t last long. I mean, she had no experience. She was in over her head. And then, of course, she fucked the vice president and general manager.”
Mills races through the Cliff Notes of “Mulroney Fucks a Mormon” to the gaping face of the psychic.
“So she leaves Channel Six and ends up with the city,” Mills says, wrapping up the tale. “On her feet. No consequences, no remorse.”
Those words—no consequences, no remorse—are hanging in the air with a peculiar palpability as Bridget emerges from the restaurant.
“Alex, you gotta get me back to work,” she tells Mills. “I’ve got projects up the spiral staircase of my ass.”
He glares at her, then shakes his head apologetically at Gus who is stifling a laugh. “Hey, Parker let’s talk later. Okay?”
“Actually, there’s something I need to tell you now.”
“Okay. . . .”
“Privately.”
Bridget exhales a hyperbolic breath of disgust. “Seriously?” she groans. “I don’t have all day.”
Mills tosses her a set of keys. “Go wait for me in the car.”
She turns and storms off.
“She rattles easily,” Gus observes.
“That’s her reputation,” Mills says. “So, what’s so urgent?”
“I thought you should know about what happened with a patient of mine this morning.”
Mills lifts his eyebrows, offers a probing look.
Gus tells him about the rope around his patient’s neck.
“Well, geez, that’s creepy,” Mills tells him. “You think she’s our next victim?”
“No, actually I don’t,” Gus says. “But I think another victim is imminent. Maybe that’s the real message here.”
“Yes,” is all Mills says.
“Something wrong?” Gus asks.
“No. Nothing. But I think we better give this lady some surveillance, just in case.”
“Okay, but I think you’re probably wasting your time. I don’t see her as a victim. I just see the rope as a sign.”
“Do you have an address for this lady?”
“It’s in the system, but technically . . .”
“You can’t give it to me.”
“Right.”
“Technically I’d have to get a subpoena.”
“Right. HIPPA and all that.”
“But getting a subpoena would be impossible based on, what, a psychic at Valley Imaging?” Mills asks.
“Exactly.”
“Then what do you suppose I do?”
“Watch for an e-mail.”
“An e-mail?”
“With an attachment.”
“Okay.”
“I may accidently take a picture of her record with my phone.”
“And accidently e-mail it to me?”
“I might.”
“That would be very careless of you, Gus Parker. It could get you fired.”
“That’s why any observation of Ms. Nichols must be very stealth. She must never catch on that she’s under surveillance.”
“Stealth,” Mills repeats with benign irony. “You have my word.”
Then Gus leans in as if he has a secret to tell and says, “I saw the paper this morning. I guess that’s good news for Trevor,” which isn’t a secret, but Mills appreciates the discretion.
“Good news is relative these days, Mr. Parker,” he says.
“You don’t sound hopeful.”
“We don’t need the publicity,” Mills tells him. “That much should be obvious.”
“By ‘we’ you mean the department or your family?”
“I mean both. Equally.”
Gus says something, but Mills can’t hear him over the sudden approach of a blasting horn. The eruption, blaring and insistent, displaces all the other noise of the street, stops people in their tracks, and hurdles forward. Both men turn.
“What the fuck is she doing?” Mills roars.
The car collides with the curb. Bridget is at the wheel, her hand leaning on the horn. Gus blocks his ears. Mills bangs on the window.
Slowly, the passenger window lowers. And the horn abruptly dies.
“Get the fuck out of my car,” Mills tells the woman. “I could get you fired for this little stunt.”
“But you won’t,” she says.
“You’re a freak,” Mills tells her.
“And I’m late for a meeting, Alex,” she says as she crosses to the passenger side and winks at Gus. Before her door is closed, the car peels out with an angry shriek.
16
Gary Potter shows up promptly at eight o’clock. Gus had only been home from work about an hour (two extra patients were squeezed into his schedule) and had dashed out to walk Ivy, rushed a shower, and shoved a slice of spinach pie in his mouth. Still chewing, he swings the door open and ushers his client inside. “Welcome back,” he says.
“You were right,” Potter says as they sit opposite each other.
“About?”
“You told me I would end up in Los Angeles.”
“Yes, I did,” Gus says. “But I also said it wouldn’t happen immediately.”
Potter’s smile is almost audible. “I auditioned for the Out-of-Workers and got accepted.”
“The Out-of-Workers?”
“Never heard of them?” he asks incredulously. “They’re the number one improv group in LA. All their members go on to sitcoms and movies.”
Gus nods and smiles. “Congratulations. This is good news.”
“My show closes at the Herberger in two weeks, and then I’m good as gone.”
“And your girlfriend? We talked about her last time. You were worried.”
Potter leans forward. “And this is the best part. Totally knocked me for a loop. She wants to come to LA.”
“No kidding. This is all working out.”
“Yeah. I got to get the hell out of the desert,” Potter says.
Before his client even finished that sentence, the visions were back. Roaring visions of murder.
Potter is standing in a cone of bluish light, his hands holding a knife above his head.
And plunge. And plunge.
And a woman below, wailing like a siren.
Knife ripping through cloth, ripping through skin.
She cries in scales from high piercing to low moaning, from the breaking of glass, to the sweeping up of the dust.
Potter has no eyes.
Gus grips his chair, wills the visions to scatter. He closes his eyes and fetches a blank page in his mind. He says nothing until the sheet is in place, and then he lowers his head and says, “Gary, I see you violently upset about something.”
“You do?”
It’s not like Gus can just open his eyes and say, “Dude, I saw you kill someone.” Instead, he says, “Yeah. I think there’s something here in the valley that is making your departure even more urgent.”
“Really?” the man says, and Gus immediately hears a change in the man’s inflection. He hears a bubble of suspicion, then a bubble of surprise.
“Maybe it’s nothing,” Gus stalls, “but I feel like your move to Los Angeles is not only an opportunity but also an escape.”
“What would I be escaping from?”
Gus opens his eyes. Gary Potter’s face is fractured by a frozen crack of a smile. The man looks a bit like a happy corpse. “Is there anything you did here, Gary, that went wrong?”
Potter shakes his head. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”
“Well, I just wonder if there aren’t other reasons you want to leave the valley.”<
br />
“This place bores me to death, if you must know.”
“That’s a pretty strong word.”
“What is?”
“Death.”
Potter laughs. “Excuse the exaggeration.”
“I’m not sure it’s exaggeration. I’m seeing something about death, Gary. I must tell you that.”
The man sits back. “Now you’re freaking me out.”
“Am I? I’m sorry.”
The guy throws his arms in the air. “Man, I came here with good news, and now you’re just messing with my head.”
Gus smiles thinly. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to. But why are you here? What do you want from me?”
Potter collapses in the chair. “I want you to look into my future and tell me the move to LA will work out, for Christ’s sake. What do you think I’m here for?”
Gus nods. “Would you like some spinach pie? I just picked it up from Whole Foods on the way home.”
“Uh. No thanks.”
“Okay,” Gus says. “I can tell you that your move to Los Angeles will work out well. I don’t see any problems in California for you. Your girlfriend will be happy too. I see her singing in a café. She’s really going to discover herself. Is she the only woman you’ve dated here in Phoenix?”
“No. There’s been a few others.”
Suddenly, again, a puncture, a scream, a puncture.
“Maybe that’s what I’m getting to,” Gus says. “Maybe you need to make peace with them before you go.”
“Make peace?”
“Did any of those relationships end badly?”
Potter laughs deeply. A resonant stage laugh, from the belly. “They all ended badly. I’m a bit of an asshole.”
“What I’m seeing is you in Los Angeles, suddenly feeling bad for what happened here in Phoenix. It’s going to get in your way.”
The client shakes his head, lowers it to his hands. “Whoa, man, this is deep. I’ve pissed off a few chicks, but I’m sure they’re over it.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“Because it’s been a few years since I dated anyone but Jessica.”
“People don’t forget their hurt.”
“Yeah, well, two of them never stopped calling me.”
“Oh?”
“They acted like I ruined their lives.”
Gus sees an image of Gary Potter lunging in the dark, rivers of blood at his feet. “So there you go,” he says, feigning ambivalence. “Apparently, they’re not over it.” Gus’s hands are clammy, and he can tell his face is a sheen of sweat. “I need a cold drink. Can I get you something?”
The client says no.
Gus rises steadily, overcompensating for the tremors in his legs. He walks from the room and grasps a wall. Takes a deep breath. Aims for the kitchen sink. He splashes cold water on his face. Then he reaches into the refrigerator and swigs some pomegranate juice straight from the bottle. Okay, everything’s fine, he tells himself. I may have a killer in my house. But I’m a professional. And I’m hydrated.
“I think I’ll take you up on that beverage.”
The shudder is obvious. Gus actually feels his feet leave the ground.
“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” Potter says. “But actually I’m really parched. Another reason to get out of the desert.”
Gus laughs nervously. “Water? Juice?”
“Water’s fine,” Potter says. “You know, I’m thinking about what you said. You may be right. I don’t want to be haunted by any ghosts once I get to Los Angeles.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“So what do I do?”
“Make amends in the way that fits for you.” Gus hands him a glass.
“What does that mean?”
“Well . . .” Gus draws his own pause. He scrambles for words; his hesitation is palpable. “Maybe this is the bad breakup equivalent of going to confession.”
Potter takes a gulp from the glass. “I’m not a good Catholic, but maybe I should just call them and tell them I screwed up. Ask for their blessing and all that.”
“That sounds about right,” Gus says, swallowing hard.
The two men stare at each other for a protracted moment. Ivy is snoring in the next room. There is no other sound. Eyes lock on eyes. Gus looks deeply into the man. The man is a cave. A dark hole in the universe.
“Wow, you’re good,” the man says. “Really, really good.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah. I was embarrassed to admit it, but it’s true. I did something awful to those women. I cheated on all of them. Probably ruined their lives. Jessica is the first woman I’ve ever been faithful to. For Jessica and me to work out, I have to make amends to the others.”
Gus’s breath is shallow. “Is that how you see it?”
“Thanks to you, man.”
“Okay. Well, our time is up,” Gus tells his client. “Let me know if you need another appointment before you leave Phoenix.”
Potter reaches into his pocket and pulls out an envelope, hands it to Gus. “I don’t know if you’d call this a tip, but I brought these for you.”
Gus peers into the envelope.
“Two tickets to see my show at the Herberger. Saturday night. Can you make it?”
Gus examines the tickets. “Yeah, sure. That’s really kind of you. Nice surprise.”
“Can you get a date?”
“I’m sure I can find someone.”
“Jessica has a sister if you’re looking, dude.”
Gus laughs. “Not really, but thanks. I have a few people in mind.”
“I bet most chicks are scared to date a psychic.”
Gus shrugs. “I don’t know.”
Potter digs out cash from his wallet and hands it to Gus. “Here’s your fee for tonight.”
Gus follows Potter out the front door. “Hey, I don’t suppose you have any rope in your car,” he asks his client.
“Rope?”
“Yeah. I need to rig something in my garage,” Gus fibs.
“Uh, no. I don’t think so. I have some tools. But no rope.”
“Okay. Just thought I’d ask.”
Potter drives off. The taillights are bloody red eyes, and they’re watching Gus as they retreat into the socket of the night. Gus is still standing in his front yard. He’s swaying there, considering all kinds of implications.
The next morning Gus wakes up groggy. Kind of a psychic hangover. He decides right there, still squashed in his pillow, not to think about last night. But somehow he’s going to have to tell Detective Alex Mills about his visions of Gary Potter. But not now. Now he needs a cup of coffee that’s an 8.0 on the Richter scale. And a really long and really hot shower. He has forty-five minutes to get to work. He flips on the TV, then listens to CNN as he roams around the house.
North Korea still crazy.
Afghanistan still bloody.
White House spokesperson Hallie O’Halloran still dumb as a brick.
A fire kills seven in New York City.
A bank robbery gone bad in Chicago.
And a serial killer on the loose in Phoenix. The anchor people are talking about the desert murders. Now it’s a national story.
17
Bridget Mulroney, leaning at the doorway to Alex Mills’s office, tells Mills and Chase that the networks are poking around. “The television networks,” she emphasizes.
“And you would just love to get in front of the network cameras and make a statement for the city,” Mills says. “Isn’t that right?”
“That’s not it,” she insists.
“Then what is it?” Chases asks.
“They want to know why the FBI isn’t involved.”
Chase gives her a look.
“What?” she begs.
“I’m why the FBI is not involved,” he tells her.
“For God’s sake, Bridget, refer them to the sergeant,” Mills says with some chagrin. “He put out a press release. It clearly states we have a former agent on the case
.”
“Well they’re not buying it,” she tells them.
Mills gets up and gestures to the door. “Then you’re not selling it hard enough. We’re busy, Bridget. Could you take this up with Woods if you’re really that anxious?”
She puts her hands on her hips. Her business suit is tight in all the wrong places. “Don’t you fucking discount me, Alex.”
“Really, Bridge,” Chase says.
She pivots, stops, grunts, and leaves.
“I guess I should applaud,” Mills says. “That was one performance.”
Chase turns to him. “I think you should really cut her some slack. She comes in here on the defense because she knows you can’t stand her.”
“Did you just call her Bridge?”
Chase shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“You did,” Mills says. “You called her Bridge. That’s sweet.”
The phone rings. Chase leans forward as though he’s about to pick it up. Mills gives him a look, a territorial look, like what the fuck, dude; he points a finger to the phone then to himself. “Mills.”
“Hey, Alex, it’s Brett in the lab.”
“Hey, man. What do you got?”
“Nothing conclusive, but I wanted you to know we’re sure these victims were gagged before they died.”
“Right. We figured from the facial injuries. Something tight to silence them from screaming.”
“Yeah. We definitely got trace fibers in the teeth. Probably rope and other fabric.”
“Thanks. I’ll send Myers down to see the samples. What about my Jane Doe from the Peak?”
Brett laughs. “That body’s a hot mess. But we’re trying. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Cool. Thanks, man.”
Mills hangs up and tells Chase what he just learned. The former FBI agent smiles and nods. He picks up a small stack of papers from the chair beside him and drops it in front of Mills.
The report on Carmody’s rental car is incomplete.
The tire tracks on the other vehicle are a likely match for a pickup or an SUV. They are no fresher, no older than the tracks from Carmody’s rental. Both vehicles likely arrived at the scene at the same time—or within minutes of each other.
The Circle K receipt is linked to a location on Camelback Road, 2.1 miles from the murder scene. Time-stamped at 3:01 p.m.
Hotel video surveillance shows a woman leaving the parking garage in a vehicle consistent with the rental Lindsey Drake was driving. Her departure time is consistent with the statement given by her boyfriend. Video surveillance of all entrances/exits shows no evidence that Neil Carmody ever left the hotel after returning from the original hike.
Desert Remains Page 17