Baudin glanced to Dixon. “She’s dead, Bobby.”
He was silent a second, glancing between them. “Dead? What you mean dead?”
“As in a doornail. She in the bone yard, brother.”
“Shit… How she die?”
Dixon said, “She was murdered.” Bobby’s eyes grew wide. “Don’t worry, she’s been dead about a month, and you’ve been in here two years, right? We’ll clear you pretty quick.”
“Yeah, man. Almost two and a half. Got me another three left and I’m gone.”
Baudin sat and leaned back in the chair. “Tell me about her.”
“Whatchoo wanna know?”
“About her. What was she like, where’d she come from, what kinda people she run with…”
He shrugged, holding the cigarette between his fingers, the shackles rattling as he raised his hands to his mouth. “She was wild, man. Partier. Sometimes too hard for me. She was always goin’ to them parties at the colleges, biker parties, shit, I think she was at a party every night. I didn’t mind it for a while, but sometimes you just wanna chill and watch TV, you know? She never could do that shit. Always had to be doin’ somethin’.”
“Do you know any of her friends we can speak with that may have seen her more recently than you?”
“She only got one friend back then. Um… Dora, that was her name. Like that cartoon. Dora. I don’t know her last name. But she worked over there at Macy’s in the, like, makeup.”
“She got parents or siblings here?”
“Yeah, man. She got a mama that live in Belmore. Tammy.”
Dixon said, “What was her drug of choice?”
“She would do X and loved coke… She’d do whatever was around, I guess. She loved yayo. The rush. She never touched weed, though, ’cause she said it slowed her down, and she didn’t like that.”
Baudin was quiet a moment. “She was tortured to death, Bobby. Real brutal. About as bad as you can imagine it, that’s how bad.” He leaned closer to the man, putting his elbows on the table. “You know anyone in her life that could do that?”
“Nah, man,” he said somberly. “Nah. People loved her. She was funny, man. And always had the hookup. Willin’ to share if you didn’t have nothin’.”
Baudin nodded and rose, setting his palm on Bobby’s shoulder. “We’ll stop by if we think of anything else.”
Dixon rose and followed him out. When the guard retrieved Bobby, they saw him staring down at the floor, his eyes reflecting the pain of what they’d just told him.
“How far is Belmore from here?”
“Two towns over. About thirty miles back toward Cheyenne.”
“Good, maybe we can catch her before she goes to bed.”
Dixon stopped. “Now?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m goin’ home, man. My wife’s waiting for me.”
“You kiddin’ me? We just found out who she is. Don’t you wanna talk to the mom?”
“Of course, but I ain’t stayin’ out till midnight to do it. She’ll be there Monday. And don’t you have a daughter to get to?”
Baudin bit his lip. “I’ll go. I’ll give you a call after.” He hurried back to the car. “Come on, I wanna get there quick.”
19
After Baudin dropped his partner off, he hit a drive-through and ordered a large Coke. He put Belmore into his GPS and took the interstate out of Cheyenne. Soft New Age music played through his speakers, something with piano and bass. It didn’t matter; he wasn’t listening anyway.
His eyes drifted to the white lines on the road, zipping past him so quickly they blended into one solid line. Beyond was desert and the rocky, jagged mountains. Even with the moon hanging over them, spilling light over the peaks, they looked black, as though they had no form or function. Just a blackness carved out of the sky.
He pictured ancient Indian civilizations living here, living off the land, worshipping gods in the trees and rivers. Even with the cities and cars, the airplanes overhead and the campers at the base of the mountains, the wilderness was still the wilderness and still had a pull for him—for every human, he figured—that he couldn’t explain. Wonder, fear, and awe all at once.
The exit for Belmore was a small road leading to a cluster of lights that looked less like a city and more like an encampment of Boy Scouts with lanterns. The road narrowed farther into the desert, and he entered the town without any indication he had done so. No welcome signs, no street names or Wal-Marts. The only business he saw was a gas station that doubled as a butcher shop.
He had dispatch run Tammy Tavor through Spillman and got an address. The GPS led him through town, down a long road with nothing but rundown barns and shacks that no one used anymore. The grass was overgrown and shaggy, slowly swallowing any manmade construction.
The house was on its last legs, dull white with red shutters that were falling off the hinges. A chain link fence surrounded it, but the fence was even more dilapidated than the house. He parked in a driveway with garbage strewn across it and climbed out of the car. Taking a moment to absorb the scene, he was instantly transported back to his childhood and the foster homes he would bounce around. One of the couples had a house not unlike this. In back was a set of stairs leading below to a dark cellar. He would lie awake at night imagining what was in that cellar, what the darkness held for him. In the year he stayed there, before the father was arrested for meth distribution and the mother took off with another man, Baudin never once went down into the cellar. He still wondered if what he’d imagined down there was worse than it really was, or better.
The front porch had a mat that said “Leave your worries at the door” and a rug caked in dog fur. Baudin knocked and then took a step back. No lights were on in the house, and he couldn’t hear anything coming from inside. Not until he rang the doorbell, and a light switched on upstairs.
A few minutes later, an older woman in a nightgown came to the door. A gray mole thrust out from her chin, taking up more space than it seemed it should. Her eyes fixed on him, but she didn’t say anything.
“I need to talk to you about your daughter, Ms. Tavor.”
Her eyes suddenly widened and grew moist. Wordlessly, she opened the door and let him through. She waddled over to the dining table and sat down. Baudin followed and sat next to her, close enough to touch her arm in comfort if he got the chance. He knew touch was powerful, more powerful than any words he could possibly say.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“You police?” Her voice was gruff, a lifelong smoker’s voice that was near giving out.
“I am.”
“What type of police?”
He hesitated but somehow knew she could tell if he was lying. “Murder police.”
She nodded, looking down at the floor. “She dead then?”
“I’m sorry.” He reached out and gently rested his hand on her forearm. It felt too forced, and he withdrew it. Instead he reached for his cigarettes, and when he touched an empty pocket, he remembered he’d given them to Bobby.
“When was the last time?” Baudin said.
“You want a drink?”
He watched her and could almost see the loneliness in her. The type that hope and optimism couldn’t touch. The type that had given up a long time ago and didn’t even remember what it was like not to be alone. “A beer if you got it.”
She waddled to the kitchen and came back out with two cans of beer. She popped them both and handed one to him. He took a long drink, letting the fluid coat his mouth and throat. Half the can was empty before he set it on the table.
“I seen her ’bout five months ago. She came here checkin’ up on me. Sometimes she did that. Would clean up the house and such. She cleaned the house, spent the night in her room, and then left.”
“She say where she was going?”
“No. I didn’t ask. We ain’t have that type of relationship.”
“What type did you have?”
The woman grew visibly unco
mfortable and the moisture in her eyes grew more pronounced. “She blames me… she blames me for what her father done to her. Sayin’ I didn’t protect her. That I knew about it and didn’t protect her none when she was young.”
Baudin didn’t have to ask what she needed protection from.
“Her father live here, too?” he asked.
“He died some five years ago. Liver failure from all that drinkin’. Hard drinkin’, since he was eight years old.”
Baudin finished the beer. He belched quietly and let alcohol-soaked air out of his nose. “So she didn’t tell you who she was spending time with or where she was living? Anything like that?”
“No, nothin’ like that. We’d talk about gossip in the town, what her cousins were doin’, stuff like that. We wasn’t like a mother and daughter. We was like neighbors, if that. But she was sweet. She’d come clean my house ever’ month.”
He gave a melancholy grin. “That does sound sweet.”
She nodded and quietly mumbled, “Uh-huh.”
“Any idea who would want to hurt her? Maybe an ex-boyfriend she was worried about or something?”
“No, I don’t know any of that. I just know she’d show up at my house once a month, clean, sleep here, and kiss me goodbye in the mornin’. Don’t know nothin’ else that could help.” She sipped her beer and played with the can. “She go quick? I wouldn’t want her to suffer none.”
He pushed the can of beer away, not looking her in the eyes. “Yeah, real quick. She didn’t feel anything.”
“That’s good at least.”
“Do you have a recent picture of her I could have?”
“No. I got some baby ones but nothing recent. Her high school might, though.”
Baudin felt an icy chill up his back. “How old was she, Ms. Tavor?”
“Sixteen.”
20
Baudin left the Tavors’ home in a stupor.
A child.
Alli had appeared so much older on the cross and at the morgue. The behavior that Bobby described was of a wild twenty-something sowing her oats. Not a kid barely older than Heather. The thought that Alli was only a handful of years older than his own daughter filled him with an unidentifiable dread that churned in his stomach as if he’d eaten something bad.
On the drive back, he didn’t speed. Molly’s house wasn’t far from his own, but it was close to ten by the time he pulled up there. Only when he arrived did he realize he’d forgotten to get her food.
He went in without knocking and found Molly asleep on the couch, some sitcom turned low on the television. He quietly made his way down the hall to the empty guest room and opened the door to see if Heather was sleeping, too.
As his hand touched the doorknob, he heard giggling, and then two voices. One was his daughter’s. The other was a male voice.
Baudin opened the door and saw something he knew he’d never forget: a boy pulling his daughter’s skirt down to her knees, exposing her panties.
“Dad!”
Baudin felt nothing at that moment. No fury, no sadness, no regret… it was as if everything went dull, as if the volume of the world went down a notch. But what had to happen next was something he knew couldn’t be avoided.
Baudin rushed forward as the boy jumped to his feet. He was older than Heather by at least four years. Baudin swung as the boy tried to say something, connecting with the boy’s jaw. The blow sent him spinning onto the bed, unconscious.
Heather screamed, and Molly ran into the room as Baudin picked the boy up by his hair and cocked back his fist for another vicious blow. Molly grabbed his arm, holding him back, pleading with him to stop.
Heather sprinted out of the room, hysterically crying.
Baudin calmed down and pushed Molly off. “What the hell, Molly?”
“I’m sorry. I fell asleep. She must’ve snuck him in through the window.”
Baudin stormed out, looking for Heather, but he didn’t see her. He ran outside. “Heather!” He scanned from one end of the neighborhood to the other. He ran out into the street, his hands on his head as though in surrender. Panic gripped him now. When he looked back at the house, Molly was helping the boy out the front door. Baudin ran back.
“Where is she?” he asked, grabbing the boy by the collar.
“Ethan, let him go.”
“I said where is she!”
“How in heaven’s name is he supposed to know? You knocked him unconscious, remember?”
The boy wobbled and said, “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
He vomited over the lawn. Molly held him up as well as she could, but he toppled over. “We better call an ambulance,” she said.
21
Dixon lay on his couch, staring blankly at the television. Dinner had been odd. When he got home, it was sitting in the microwave. Hillary was taking a shower and had been in there a long time before she came out and announced that she would be reading in bed.
“What’s wrong?” he’d asked.
“Just not feeling well.”
When she didn’t feel well, he was the one she came to for comfort. Something else was going on, something she didn’t want to discuss with him.
He rose from the couch and moved to the door of the bedroom. Hillary was asleep on her side, the book lying flat next to her on the sheets. He watched her breathe for a while, watching the way her chest rose and fell, admiring the smoothness of her legs and the two or three wrinkles that were beginning to appear on her face. She was self-conscious about them, but he didn’t care. He wanted a woman who was real, not plastic, but it seemed she would never accept that.
Feeling ashamed, he still went into the kitchen and found Hillary’s cell phone. He turned it on and flipped through the recent call log, then the text messages, then her emails. Nothing out of the ordinary. He suddenly felt foolish for doubting her. The poor woman was sick, and here he was going through her cell phone as if she were a criminal.
As he went to the fridge to get a beer, his cell phone vibrated. It was a junior detective from the precinct, Cory Hatch on the night shift.
“This is Kyle,” he said.
“Kyle, hey, man, it’s Cory.”
“What’s up, man? You bored whacking off over there?”
“Yeah, I’m bored, and your dull ass is the first person I thought of calling.”
“Hell, I wouldn’t call your wife first either.”
“Me neither, actually.”
Dixon grinned as he got his beer and popped the top, holding the phone between his cheek and shoulder. “So what can I do you for?”
“Um… well, we got your partner here. Thought you might want to deal with this personally.”
“Ethan?”
“Yup.”
“What about him?”
“He broke some kid’s jaw. Seventeen years old, man. Guess he caught the kid in bed with his thirteen-year-old.”
“Shit. You holdin’ him?”
“I don’t know. The kid’s father is talking lawsuit and newspapers… I just thought I should call you.”
“I’ll handle it. Be down in ten.”
Dixon put the beer back in the fridge and rushed to his bedroom. He was getting dressed when he heard Hillary stir. She rolled over in bed and watched him.
“Where you going?”
“Looks like my dumbass partner broke some kid’s jaw. I’ll be back in, like, an hour.”
“What happened?”
“Caught him and his daughter in bed. Don’t blame the guy for somethin’ like that, but I gotta get down there and deal with it.”
He kissed her on the forehead before grabbing his gun and badge and rushing out the door.
When Dixon arrived at the station, he realized he’d sped down there and wasn’t sure why. Everyone would’ve waited for him.
The precinct was calm and quiet. No phones ringing, no faxes coming through, no detectives laughing and telling stories. He found Hatch getting some coffee.
“Hey, where are they?”
“Ethan’s at his desk. The kid’s in interrogation three. His dad’s pacing the halls, waiting to hear back from his lawyer.”
Dixon looked toward the interrogation rooms. “What happened?”
“The boy was on top of his kid when he came into the room. Knocked him cold with a single punch.”
“You called IAD yet?”
“Fuck them.”
Dixon nodded. “Thanks, Cory.”
“No worries.”
Interrogation 3 was at the end of a long hallway, tucked back from the main floor. Dixon peered in through the one-way glass. The boy looked even younger than he was, and the left side of his jaw was swollen and red. He was running his finger along the top of the table, resting his chin on his other arm. Dixon walked in.
“Hey,” Dixon said, sitting down across from him.
“Can I go home now?”
“What’s your name, son?”
“Billy.”
“Billy, I don’t think you’re goin’ home just yet. We need to talk first. You want a soda or anything?”
“No thanks. My fucking jaw hurts. And the ambulance guys didn’t do shit.”
He nodded, keeping his eyes locked on the kid’s. “We’ll get you to a hospital in a minute. Detective Baudin’s daughter—I’d like to talk about her, Billy. Will you talk about her with me?”
“I didn’t do anything. We were just fooling around, and that guy nearly killed me.”
“You bang her?”
“What?”
He leaned forward. “Did… you… bang… her? Did your fingers go inside her pussy?”
“No, nothing happened.”
“That’s not what Detective Baudin is saying. He said you were fucking her when he walked in.”
“What? No, I wasn’t! I was bangin’ her a little, but she wanted it. That’s it. I fucking swear it.”
Dixon grinned and pointed to the camera in the corner. “See, what you just did, son, was confess to sexual abuse of a child. She’s thirteen. Which means under the law, there’s no difference between her and a six-year-old.” He leaned back in his seat. “Did you know minors in this state over fourteen who’re convicted of sex crimes involving children have to register as sex offenders for the rest of their lives? That’s if the DA doesn’t charge them as adults and send ’em to prison first. Prison, Billy. Where the big dogs are. Pretty young kid like you, they are gonna have some fun, I’ll tell ya.”
Vanished - A Mystery (Dixon & Baudin Book 1) Page 9