by Diane Kelly
Night is like an Ansel Adams photograph.
FORTY-SEVEN
GETTING THE PICTURE
Megan
From the glove compartment of my cruiser, I retrieved the Berkeley Place Neighborhood Watch schedule that Nora Conklin had given me. The schedule showed four men on duty at the moment. Garrett Hawke, of course. Nora’s husband, Todd. A man named Rasheed Chutani. And Victor Paludo, who’d been on duty the night before Kirstin Rumford had discovered her broken azalea bushes, the night the Lowrys had summoned the police after hearing someone outside their window, and the night that someone had cut the screen on Korinna Papadakis’s window.
Is he our man?
He certainly gave off a pervy vibe, staring at women’s chests the way he did. But at his age he didn’t move fast. I had a hard time believing he could have fled each crime scene quickly enough to avoid being caught. Still, it was possible. By the time people got over their initial fear and dared to take a look outside, he might have had enough time to scurry out of sight and get to his car.
As I rattled off Hawke’s cell phone number, Detective Bustamente input the numbers in his phone and pushed the call button.
“Hello, Mr. Hawke,” he said into his phone. “This is Hector Bustamente.” He paused a moment to allow Hawke to respond. “I’m at your house. I’d like to talk to you.” He paused again, silently shaking his head at whatever Hawke was saying on his end. “Yes, it’s important. Come here right away.”
A minute later, Hawke’s Expedition pulled into the driveway. Hawke emerged, his tool belt not only stocked with a flashlight, pepper spray, and gun tonight, but also a walkie-talkie. He pulled the walkie-talkie from his belt and held it to his mouth, pushing the talk button. “I’m on a short break at home, men. I’ll check in when I’m back on duty. Carry on.”
I noticed he didn’t tell the others the reason for his break. He seemed to know that we weren’t here to discuss a development in the case, but rather to speak to him about threatening Gilbreath. Nonetheless, he feigned innocence.
“What’s this about?” he asked. “Is there some breaking news?”
Bustamente grunted. “If you’d call your earlier visit to Jerry Jeff Gilbreath’s place ‘breaking news,’ then I suppose so.”
Hawke said nothing, merely staring at us as if waiting for me or the detective to say something else.
“You can’t just go threaten someone,” Bustamente said, “no matter how much of a lowlife he is.”
Hawke’s jaw flexed. “Is that what he told you? That I threatened him?”
“So you admit you went to his apartment?” the detective asked.
Hawke crossed his arms over his chest. “I did.”
“And you threatened him?”
Hawke didn’t admit it, but he didn’t deny it, either. “All I’ll say is that anything that lowlife got he deserved.”
Hard to disagree with that.
Bustamente took a step back, not necessarily conceding but deciding to put an end to the exchange. I didn’t blame him. Hawke wasn’t the easiest man to reason with and, frankly, we had better things to do. “If you go to see Gilbreath again, you’re going to force our hand. Don’t do that, all right? Your neighborhood needs you.”
Hawke chuckled. “No need to worry about me, Detective.” He returned to his car, climbed in, and set back out on patrol.
Bustamente and I parted ways at the curb. “Go home,” he told me. “Get some sleep.”
I gave him a two-fingered salute and climbed back into my cruiser. Despite the salute, I had no intention of going back home, at least not for the moment. Ironically, I did some of my best thinking while cruising mindlessly around in my car, my subconscious taking over where active contemplation fell short.
I drove down Seminary to Hurley’s sister’s apartment. Her windows were dark. No sign of the stolen white pickup in the parking lot. Would we ever catch that man? Was he even in the Fort Worth area anymore, or had he realized his odds of evading arrest would be better in another part of the country where his mug shot hadn’t appeared repeatedly on the evening news and in the papers? Fort Worth PD constantly received reports from other jurisdictions about suspects. Frankly, with so many criminals on the loose, we officers had little time to pay attention to bad guys more likely to be apprehended in Boise or Des Moines. No doubt other police departments would pay little mind to a report of an escapee from Texas.
I cruised past the Shoppes at Chisholm Trail, the shopping mall where a bomber had planted an explosive in the food court late last summer on one of the sales-tax-free shopping days that precede the start of the school year. The food court had been packed to the rafters. Thank God Brigit had alerted on the bomb in the trash can before it exploded or dozens of people, including women and children, could be dead or dismembered now, my partner and I included. I preferred my arms and legs and head to stay firmly attached to my body, thank you very much.
It was odd that Brigit had alerted on the bomb. After all, unlike Seth’s dog Blast, Brigit had not been trained to sniff for explosives. Best I could figure is that she smelled some type of drug or drug residue in the trash can. Heck, maybe she’d simply been interested in a discarded pizza crust. Either way, that dog had saved my life. No human partner could have done that.
I eyed Brigit in the rearview mirror. “Have I told you lately how much I appreciate you?”
She eyed me back, her tail wagging.
I headed back out onto Seminary, working my way west this time. I drove through the Fairmount neighborhood, passing the home of two men who’d taken in a troubled teen. I’d met the three working an earlier case. I had no doubt that, with a couple of good role models now looking out for him, the boy would turn himself around.
I cruised through Mistletoe Heights and soon found myself back in Berkeley Place. A FOR SALE sign with the Conklin & Associates pastel blue door logo stood in the yard of a large two-story Colonial. No doubt that sale would earn Nora a nice commission.
My mind ventured back to the night I’d met Nora, when she’d handed me her business card. The card bore the same blue-door logo. It had also featured a thumbnail-sized photo of a smiling Nora, along with the copyright of the photography studio. It had been something a little corny. What was it again? Smiles, Inc.? No, that wasn’t quite right. Was it Say Cheese!?
While my conscious mind said to disregard this errant, random thought, my subconscious told me to pull over. I rolled to a stop at a curb, turned on my squad car’s interior light, and fished though my pockets until I found Nora’s business card. I glanced at the copyright inscription next to her photo. Yep. Sure enough it read © SAY CHEESE! INC.
As I stared at the card, my mind began to cough up some of those factoids it had stockpiled. Lint-free, powder-free gloves were used by those who worked in evidence to prevent X-rays from being damaged. The crime scene tech had told me that. Presumably, the same type of gloves could be used to handle photograph negatives. Then again, old-fashioned camera film was pretty rare these days. Even professional photographers used digital equipment. But what about the final product? Some of the higher-end photography studios charged a pretty penny for their professional portraits. Surely special gloves would be needed to prevent leaving fingerprints when handling the photographs, right?
I might not know. But a photography supply store would.
I logged into my computer, clicked to get on the Internet, and ran a search for “photography gloves.” While the search produced several types of gloves intended to facilitate outdoor, cold-weather photography, the results also included several links to lightweight white cotton gloves that were touted as both lint-free and disposable, intended for use in handling negatives and prints.
My entire body began to tingle. Was I on to something here? After all, it wasn’t entirely clear the glove even belonged to the peeper. Still, it felt like I was heading in the right direction.
I sat back in my seat, thinking consciously now. My mind went back to the Saturn Vue si
tting in the Forest Park lot, the one with the Say Cheese! mouse decal on the back window. Without the license plate number, it would take a while to figure out who owned the vehicle. It would be quicker to start with the business.
Pulling up the Texas Secretary of State’s Web site, I clicked on the business filings tab and ran a search for Say Cheese! Inc. A few seconds later, the information popped up. The corporate officers were listed as Todd and Nora Conklin. Obviously, Nora was far more involved in her real estate business. Todd Conklin must be the one who ran the photography business.
But Todd Conklin? The guy seemed harmless. Even Gilbreath had thought so, calling Conklin a “shrimp” who’d just “stood there like a pussy” when Hawke had led his brigade to Gilbreath’s apartment. He’d never given me a second’s pause. But maybe I should pause and think about it for a moment.
Hmmmmm …
After mulling things over, I still wasn’t convinced Todd Conklin could be the peeper. Even so, I hadn’t entirely convinced myself he couldn’t be. A good investigator keeps an open mind, right?
I ran a search of the motor vehicle records next. Sure enough, a Saturn Vue popped up in the name of Say Cheese! Inc. A second search told me that the Conklins owned the dark blue Mercedes I’d seen at the Rabinowitz house when Hawke and the watch team had gathered there after the incident with the au pair. I wondered briefly why Todd used Nora’s Mercedes rather than his SUV, when he was out on patrol, but I quickly realized there could be any number of perfectly valid reasons. Maybe it was more comfortable, or got better gas mileage. Maybe he was trying not to put too many miles on it. Maybe it was loaded with valuable photography equipment and better kept locked up in his garage at night.
I closed my laptop and sat back again, angling my rearview mirror to check on Brigit. She lay quietly on her cushion, panting softly, her eyes beginning to droop. She’d alerted on Todd Conklin earlier even though he’d had no drugs on him. Though I had many ways of communicating with my partner—words, hand gestures, body language, even involuntarily through the scents I released—her passive alert stance was one of the few ways she could communicate information directly to me. Had she been trying to tell me something?
I turned around in my seat. “Were you trying to tell me something, girl?”
Her only response was to glance my way and open her mouth in a wide yawn.
I felt a yawn begin to bubble up inside me, too. “Great,” I told her. “Now you’ve got me doing it.”
My yawn completed, I contemplated my next step. My thoughts could be totally off base here, but nonetheless I felt inclined to share them with Detective Bustamente. If nothing else, it would impress him that I’d put some serious thought into the matter. Given that I’d need a good recommendation when it came time for me to apply for a detective position, it couldn’t hurt to get his opinion on the matter. But first, I needed to do a little digging, see if Todd Conklin had a record. I logged into the criminal records database, typed in his name, and ran a search. Nothing popped up. Conklin had no convictions and no arrests.
I returned my laptop to its mount and dialed Bustamente’s cell. “I’ve been driving around,” I told him. “And—”
“Didn’t I tell you to go home and get some sleep?”
“You did, sir. Evidently, I didn’t listen.”
“Yeah. I was able to put those clues together. Go ahead then.”
“Okay,” I continued. “So, I had a thought. It could be an epiphany or it could be a dead end, but do you think there’s any way Todd Conklin could be the peeper?”
“The little fellow?” Bustamente asked. “What makes you suspect him?”
I told him what I’d found out about the gloves, that they were used by photographers, and that Conklin owned a photography business.
“Good work, Officer Luz. Even if it turns out to be nothing, it’s the first reasonable lead we’ve got. Keep an eye on him.”
“Will do. Good night, Detective.”
“Good night.”
I returned my phone to the cup holder and took one last look at Brigit in the mirror. Looked like she was drifting off. “Sweet dreams, girl.”
FORTY-EIGHT
DOUBLE SHIFT
Brigit
Brigit wasn’t sure why Megan kept patrolling the streets long into the night given that they’d worked a shift earlier in the day. The dog knew from experience that there was normally a much longer break between their work schedules. But, whatever. It didn’t make much difference to Brigit. She simply lay down on her cushion inside her enclosure, rested her head on her paws, and let the soothing hum and vibrations of the cruiser’s engine lull her to sleep.
Zzzzz …
FORTY-NINE
LOTION IN MOTION
Tom
He must’ve looked over the footage six dozen times since he’d taped it, but still he hadn’t tired of watching the woman rub her hands up and down her leg, applying lotion to her bare skin, and lifting her leg to give him a full-on view of her goodies. He’d stored the video clip in a file he’d named PeeperT, following their standard naming system of using the full last name and first initial, which in this case stood for Tom Peeper. A little inside joke with himself. He had no worries that anyone else would find the file. He’d added password protection. This file was for his eyes only.
He slowed down the speed and watched the video in slow motion, the gorgeous woman plunking her ripe ass down on her bed and reaching down for her calf … her hand moving up her leg … then down … then up again … then down … she put her hands around her thigh, lifting her leg up …
up …
up …
up …
and there it was, in all its glory.
The thing that made women, well, women.
“Tacos?”
His skeleton virtually ejected from his skin. He’d been so engrossed in the video that he hadn’t heard the approaching footsteps. He looked up at the man in his doorway. “Excuse me?” he squeaked.
The guy laughed. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I’m going for lunch. You want me to pick you up a couple of tacos?”
“Make it three.” He maneuvered his mouse and clicked on the X to close the file. “I’ve worked up quite an appetite this morning.”
FIFTY
BACK BEHIND BARS
Megan
After cruising through Berkeley Place, making passes by the homes of Todd Conklin, Victor Paludo, and Garrett Hawke, I headed for Blake Looney’s place on McCart. Given that the man never seemed to be home, I was beginning to wonder if he still lived in the house. Today I hit pay dirt. Looney was home.
He opened the door tentatively, making a gap barely wide enough for him to stick his white-blond head through. “Yes?” he said, his ice-blue gaze going from me down to Brigit. He gasped and closed the door a bit, virtually putting his own head in a vise.
If he thought he could stop Brigit by leaving only a small gap, he’d better think again. If I gave her the order, Brigit would find a way to squeeze herself through.
“Hello, Mr. Looney,” I said. “Got a minute?”
“I guess so,” he said, looking back up at me. “What’s this about?”
“Have you heard about the prowler in Berkeley Place? The one spying on women through their windows?”
His head wobbled as his neck squirmed. This conversation appeared to be making him uncomfortable. No wonder, really. It was pretty clear where I was going with my questions.
“I think I saw something about it on the news,” he said.
I decided to cut right to the chase. “I’m sure you can guess why I’m here,” I told him.
“Because of what happened at Nordstrom.” It wasn’t a question. It was an open acknowledgment.
“That’s right.” I eyed him for a moment, assessing him. His face burned so bright it was a wonder his skin didn’t burst into flame. Obviously, he was embarrassed by what he’d done. Or maybe just embarrassed he’d been caught doing it.
“If
you think I had something to do with what’s happened in Berkeley Place,” he said, “you’re wrong. I learned my lesson.”
Had he? Could someone really learn not to be a pervert? Or could they simply learn to be more subtle about it, better cover their tracks, be satisfied with strip clubs and porn? Hell if I knew. Sexual deviance wasn’t exactly my thing.
“Besides,” he added, “I’ve been in Florida for the past month. My mother had hip replacement surgery. I went to stay with her while she recovered.”
“You have anything to back that up?” I asked. “Maybe a plane ticket?”
“I used paperless ticketing.”
He might be lying. But then again, he might be telling the truth. After all, we could call the airline and verify what he was telling us if needed. He’d be a fool to lie to the police. It would only make him look more guilty.
His face brightened. “I think I’ve got something else that will prove I was gone. I’ll be right back.”
He closed the door and I wondered whether he might be running through the house, planning to exit out a back window. But a few seconds later he returned and thrust two rectangular slips of paper at me. “Here. These are the receipts for my baggage fees.”
I looked down at the papers in my hand. The first, which was for his outgoing flight to Jacksonville, was dated approximately four weeks earlier. The second, for his return flight, bore yesterday’s date. I looked back up at him. “Where did you stay in Florida?”
“At my mother’s house.”
“Does she live alone?”
“Normally, yes.”
“So it was just you and her?”
“That’s right.”
A variety of possibilities went through my mind. The first was that he was telling the truth. After all, I had evidence in my hand that he’d flown out to Florida last month and hadn’t returned until last night. The second possibility was that he could’ve come home during that month. Florida was only a fifteen-hour drive or bus ride away. The third possibility was that I was desperate to solve this case and grasping for straws. Who would make a fifteen-hour road trip to return to Texas to ogle women when there would be plenty of bikini-clad women to ogle on the beaches of Florida?