Serena clicked on her recorder. “The apartment looks sterile—nothing personal. No photographs. No posters on the wall. No knickknacks or collectibles that might suggest who this girl was or what was in her head. There’s no history here.”
Serena entered the kitchen and began gingerly exploring.
“No magnets on the refrigerator. Virtually no food in the fridge and nothing more than a few cereal boxes, dried pasta, and canned soup in the cabinets. We’re not talking about Julia Child here. It looks like she just moved in, but the manager said she’s been here about a year.”
She glanced in the sink and found a heavy glass vase there, washed and left on its side. Serena retreated to the living room and began examining the shelves propped against the wall not far from the bloodstain.
“Find something?” Cordy asked.
“Maybe. There’s a vase in the sink. I’m betting it’s the murder weapon. Look here, on the shelf. There’s a lighter ring in the dust. It’s the right size and shape to match the bottom of the vase. Christi and the killer are standing here, okay? She turns her back, the killer grabs the vase and wham, splits her skull open.”
“Uh-huh,” Cordy said. “No sign of forced entry or struggle, either. I am guessing that, one, she knew her killer, and, two, the murder was an unplanned spontaneous act of passion. Anger. Jealousy. I would not rule out jealousy with this girl.”
“And you base this on what?”
Cordy put a finger on the side of his nose. “It just smells right.”
Serena laughed. “Sure. Well, smell your way into the bedroom. Let’s see if this girl left any clues behind.”
The bedroom was a twelve-by-twelve box, with a closet and bathroom on the right wall. Christi had a full-sized bed, a nightstand, and a small dresser. As in the rest of the apartment, the walls were bare.
“No blanket on the bed,” Serena said.
“Maybe she was hot.”
“Or maybe the killer used it to transport the body.”
Serena went into the bathroom, which included a toilet, a pedestal sink, and a shower with a pink plastic curtain. She checked for traces of blood in the sink and shower and found nothing visible. The forensics team would check it with luminol. In the medicine cabinet, she found a sparse array of toiletries. To her surprise, she found no evidence of any kind of birth control. Either Christi’s men brought the condoms or her sex life was about as exciting as Serena’s.
She returned to the bedroom, where Cordy was examining the top drawer of Christi’s nightstand. “Anything?”
Cordy shook his head. “Not much. Matchbooks from two other strip clubs. Those might be prior employers, so we can check them out. Otherwise, no letters, no postcards, no love notes, no bills, no receipts, no credit card statements. This girl was one private señorita.”
“My dresser drawers are a mess,” Serena said. “Ten years’ worth of shit. You could write my biography by going through it.”
“Not Christi Katt. Or whoever she was.”
“Well, keep looking. Any condoms in there, by the way?”
“Why, you running low?”
Serena sighed. “How are you feeling, Cordy? You’re looking pale. It could be a latex allergy. Now tell me before you go into convulsions.”
“No condoms,” Cordy said, chuckling.
Serena explored the girl’s closet, which didn’t take long. There were a few pairs of high heels on the floor, several blouses, skirts, and dresses on hangers, and two small stacks of T-shirts and jeans on a wire shelf. She rifled through the pockets of the jeans and found only a small quantity of loose change and a few sticks of gum.
She emerged, shaking her head. “This girl is quite a little mystery. How about a wallet or keys? Find anything like that?”
“Nada,” Cordy said.
“That’s interesting. Where are they?”
“Maybe the killer took them.”
Serena reflected. “Maybe so. Let’s say Christi’s at home, keys and wallet in her pockets. The killer comes to the door. For some reason, she lets him in. Either she knows him or she doesn’t feel threatened. Big mistake. They talk, maybe argue, she turns her back, and it’s lights out. The killer, a fastidious type, cleans the vase, wipes off prints—unless we’re really lucky—and wraps the body in a blanket from the bed. No tracking blood outside that way. He waits until it’s dark and deserted outside, hauls the body to his car, drives off, and dumps her body in the desert.”
“Uh-huh,” Cordy said. “Except the body was naked. I could see the guy taking the wallet and keys. But why leave her in the buff? Who knows, maybe a little horizontal tango with the corpse? This could be one sick dude.”
“No shortage of those,” Serena said. “Forensics can tell us whether there was sexual activity. But stripping the body down does make it seem like there’s a sex angle. Unless she had a boyfriend with her and was already naked.”
“But no condoms, right?”
“Right. So we’ve got virtually no trace of this girl’s life, and yet she had someone angry enough to kill her. Nice. I hope she made some friends at the Thrill Palace. Or at one of those other clubs.”
“Don’t take bets on that, mama,” Cordy said.
“I’m not. Look, check out the dresser, and make sure we haven’t missed anything. I want to eyeball the living room again before all the guys with big feet get here.”
She left Cordy in the bedroom. Slowly, she traversed the apartment for a second time, looking at every surface, studying the floor and the walls. In the kitchen, she checked for the garbage under the sink and found coffee grounds, orange peels, and an outdated TV Guide.
Back in the living room, she checked out a handful of compact discs near the boom box, opening each case carefully, but found nothing else inside. She found it mildly interesting that Christi liked jazz. Serena, too, had wallowed in jazz during her low periods as a teenager in the first few years in Vegas, before she grew up and went country. Jazz was for trouble. Country was for living.
She heard Cordy whistle, long and loud.
“What?” she called.
Cordy was silent.
Curious, Serena returned to the bedroom. She found Cordy sitting cross-legged on the floor. The full-sized mattress had been shoved half off the bed. Next to Cordy was a small stack of newspapers. Cordy had one of the sections unfolded, and he was reading it, transfixed.
“Her secret stash?” Serena asked.
Cordy nodded.
“You should have waited for the search team before touching this stuff,” Serena told him. Then she gave in to her own curiosity. “What’s in them?”
Cordy put down the paper. “So how long you figure that body’s been lying in the desert?”
Serena shrugged. “A few days. Why?”
“Well, in that case, we got a problem, mama.”
37
Stride heard Andrea slip out of bed at six o’clock on Thursday morning to get ready for work. He opened his eyes without moving in bed and saw her, in the darkness of their bedroom, as she slid her white nightgown over her head and peeled down her panties. Her naked body had become softer and fleshier in three years but was still attractive.
“Hi,” he said softly.
Andrea didn’t look at him. “Hi yourself.”
“What was your name again?”
She shook her head. “Not funny, Jon.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Last night, he and Maggie had interrogated a suspect in a gang-related Asian drug ring until past one in the morning. There had been a string of late nights for several months.
“A phone call would sure be nice once in a while,” Andrea said. “This is three nights in a row, and I haven’t known when I’ll see you. You’re not there for me. You’re never there.”
“This case—” Stride began.
“I don’t care about the case,” she said. “If it’s not this one, it would be another one.”
Stride nodded and didn’t reply. She was right. And it was getting w
orse. He realized he was taking on parts of the investigations that should really be delegated down the line. Even K-2 had noticed it and asked him bluntly if he was looking for excuses to avoid going home. He said no, but deep down, he wasn’t sure.
“How’s Denise?” he asked. “I feel like I haven’t seen you since then.”
“That’s because you haven’t. You haven’t asked me anything about it. Do you care? You don’t know anything about me anymore.”
Andrea waited, with her hands on her hips. When he didn’t say anything more, she turned and stalked into the bathroom, shutting the door with a sharp click. He heard the shower running.
The problems had begun a year ago. They had spent two years in relative peace, avoiding conflicts by not talking about them, but recently the troubles between them had come into the open. It started with the issue of kids, which Andrea wanted desperately and Stride didn’t. He was too old by now. He would be over sixty by the time the kids left home.
Andrea persisted. Eighteen months after their marriage, with his reluctant acceptance, she went off the pill. They made love at every time of the day, to the point where there was no longer anything romantic about it. For all the trying, nothing happened. He tried to look disappointed that they couldn’t conceive, but he was afraid that his real relief showed in his face. He knew what Andrea believed, that if she had had a baby with her first husband, then he never would have left her, and her life would still be perfect. She was afraid that, if she failed again, she would end up losing Stride, too—so she had to get pregnant.
But it was not to be.
He told her over and over that it didn’t matter to him, but misery gradually took over her face, and in the year since then, it had never really left. They were well on the road to becoming strangers.
He heard the shower shut off.
The door opened, and Andrea stood naked in the doorway, watching him. He could see beads of water on her bare skin, dripping on the carpet. She was biting her lower lip, and he could make out her face well enough in the shadows to see she had been crying. They stared at each other for a long while, silently.
It was as if she had read his thoughts, and they scared her.
“We need to talk,” she said.
He heard it in her tone. He knew it was coming. Divorce. The only question was which one of them would say the word first.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a hushed voice.
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Stride told her.
He spread his arms wide, and she came to him. He folded up her wet body in his grasp. He saw anxiety in her bloodshot blue eyes. He put his hands up to her face, cupping her cheeks, and they both smiled weakly, trying to make the pain go away. He was conscious of her naked body on top of his, and he responded automatically. He shifted, wanting to enter her, but she let go and rolled off him onto her back, tugging gently on his shoulder. He followed her, sliding on top. His hands slid behind her neck. He went to kiss her, but she turned her face away. He felt her legs spreading for him, her knees bending and coming up. She didn’t move; she just held onto him as he slid into her. The sex was quick and unsatisfying. Eventually, he eased down on top of her, and they lay like that for several minutes. When he felt gentle pressure from her hands, he knew to roll off her. She kissed him, a brush of her lips, then got out of bed quickly before he could touch her.
He heard her clean herself up in the bathroom and watched her as she hurried to put clothes on. She didn’t say a word. When she was dressed, she hesitated in the doorway. She looked at him with an empty expression on her face, then turned and left, leaving him alone.
He was in the midst of uneasy dreams when the phone rang, startling him awake. He noticed the clock and groaned as he fumbled for the receiver. It was nine-thirty, an hour past his morning meeting.
“I’m late,” he growled into the phone. “Sue me.”
Stride expected a sarcastic barb from Maggie. Instead, after a pause, he heard a low, teasing laugh that was new to him.
“Is that Lieutenant Stride? You sound like you just woke up.”
He lay back in bed and closed his eyes. “I did just wake up. And I won’t admit to being Stride until I make a pot of coffee. So how about we call this a wrong number?”
“That’s too bad. Someone named Maggie told me you give great phone sex.”
Stride laughed, confused now, but also intrigued. “Not that Maggie would know. Who the hell is this?”
“My name is Serena Dial. I’m with the Las Vegas Metro Police. Unfortunately, I have news about an old case that you’re not going to like, Lieutenant.”
Las Vegas. Stride was immediately awake. It didn’t matter that three years had passed—he knew why Serena was calling. Rachel. He heard the girl’s name in his head and saw her body again in that amazing photograph.
The silence stretched out on the phone. Finally, Stride said, “I’m guessing you have her in custody.”
“No. In the morgue.”
“Rachel’s dead?”
He didn’t understand. In his idle fantasies, when someone from Las Vegas called him, Rachel was still alive. Sometimes he imagined Rachel herself would call.
“Dead. Murdered. Dumped in the desert. I know this causes problems for you.”
Stride wondered if he was dreaming. “When?”
“Last few days, as near as we can tell,” Serena told him.
She really was alive, Stride thought. Until now. “Do you know what happened? Who killed her?”
“Not yet,” Serena said. “But if you can pick me up at the airport this evening, maybe we can work it together.”
“You’re coming here?”
“That’s where the trail leads, Lieutenant. To Duluth.”
38
Maggie readily confessed to everyone who drove with her that her body wasn’t made for driving a truck. She sat on a phone book to make sure she could see over the steering wheel, and the accelerator and brake pedals had blocks to allow her feet to reach them. Before she married Eric Sorenson two years ago, she owned a miniature Geo Metro. But Eric, an ex-Olympic swimmer, didn’t fit in her small car, and so their first purchase together was a much larger vehicle, in which Eric could ride without hugging his knees on his chest.
Stride didn’t like driving with Maggie. She wasn’t the greatest driver to begin with, and the jury-rigged modifications to make her body SUV-compatible didn’t help. He also suspected she drove more recklessly with him, purely out of spite. He tried not to jam his foot into an imaginary brake or to wince audibly at the many close calls.
It was early evening on Thursday. Serena Dial’s plane from Las Vegas, via Minneapolis, was expected in half an hour. As they climbed farther from the lakeshore, heading up Miller Hill toward the Duluth airport, the air roaring between the open windows got warmer.
Maggie shook her head. The light ahead of them turned red, and she honked her horn as she sped through the intersection, not slowing down.
“She was alive the whole damn time,” Maggie said. “Archie Gale’s going to love this.”
Stride nodded wearily. “Dan won’t be happy to learn that he prosecuted a man for murdering a girl who wasn’t dead. I don’t think it’s going to give his campaign a boost.”
“Have you told him yet?” Maggie asked.
“Not yet. I asked K-2 if I could hold off until tomorrow. The detective from Vegas agreed to keep it under wraps until we could tell Emily.”
Maggie frowned. “I hope Emily doesn’t fall to pieces. Imagine killing your husband for killing your daughter and then finding out he was innocent.”
Stride shrugged. “Innocent of murder, maybe. I still think Graeme was sleeping with Rachel.”
“The question is, what the hell really happened to her?”
“She had to have help disappearing,” Stride said. “No way she left town on her own. We would have picked up some trace of her. Maybe she got someone to drive her to Minneapolis. She disguised herself and hopped a bus fro
m there. The friend drove back to Duluth and kept quiet.”
“And the evidence we found at the barn? The bracelet, the blood, the footprints?”
“I know, that’s the problem. We know Rachel was at the barn that Friday night.” Stride rubbed his lower lip and stared out the window at the fast food restaurants and liquor stores passing by. “Okay, what about this? Rachel gets home that night. Graeme wants a rendezvous, since Emily’s out of town. He and Rachel drive to the barn, climb in the back of the van, and start steaming up the windows.”
Maggie frowned. “Why go to the barn? No one’s home, why not just do it in the bedroom?”
“Who knows? Maybe the barn was their place. Maybe Graeme didn’t tell her what he had in mind. One way or another, he gets her out there. But something goes wrong. Maybe Rachel says no this time, and that’s not what Graeme wants to hear. Or maybe they’re playing a kinky game with the knife that starts to go too far. Rachel manages to get out of the van, and he chases her. They struggle, she loses her bracelet, her shirt is torn. He wrestles her back to the van.”
“And then what?” Maggie asked. “Remember, he didn’t kill her.”
“I know. Graeme suddenly comes to his senses. He’s never gone this far before, and it scares him, like a cold shower. Or maybe it’s just like what happened with Sally. He hears another car coming and hightails it out of there. He pretends it was all a mistake, drives Rachel home, and tells her to forget the whole thing.”
Maggie jammed on the brakes as a car turned in front of them. She squealed into the left lane and roared around the other car, shooting a dirty look through the window.
“But when they get home, Rachel is scared shitless,” Maggie speculated.
“Me, too,” Stride said.
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