by Lee Goldberg, Scott Nicholson, J A Konrath, J Carson Black,
Silence. Then, “I’ve got to get going. Lehman’s lawyer’s gonna be here any minute.”
31
The Apalachicola Police Department offices took up the second story of City Hall near the Apalachicola River. From its proximity to the water, the building could have been a cotton warehouse when the town was a bustling port.
A giant standing fan dominated Chief Redbone’s office, blowing like a blizzard across the cluttered space.
A large man with thinning blond hair and a strawberry complexion, Clyde Redbone heaved himself out of his chair and held out a hand. In his late forties, more muscle than fat, he looked like a former linebacker.
“I’m Laura—“
“Cardinal. I know. Couldn’t forget a pretty name like that. My secretary told me you’d be coming by.” He directed her to a leather couch against the wall that had seen better days. “Sit down, take a load off.”
He skimmed his bulk expertly from behind his desk and aimed the standing fan at her. “How’s that?”
Gale force, but in this heat and humidity, necessary. “Thanks.”
“Something to drink? Coffee? Co’Cola?”
She asked for water and he filled a mug with water from the cooler. He sat down and folded his hands on the green felt blotter. He wore a short-sleeved shirt that exposed massive arms mottled with freckles run together under a nest of blond hair. “What can I help you with?”
“I’m interested in a man named Jimmy de Seroux. Do you know him?”
He leaned back and regarded her through watery blue eyes. Something going on behind them, but she couldn’t tell what it was. “I know Jimmy, but not well. Good piano player.”
“I’m trying to locate him.”
“Think he lives over on Fifteenth Street." He reached for the phone book.
“I know where he lives. I thought you could give me assistance.”
He stood up and reached for his hat, hooked on an old-fashioned hat stand beside the desk. “Why not?" He checked his watch. “Tell you what. It’s lunch time. I was just going to go down to the park and have my sandwich. We could talk there. I try never to miss my half hour outdoors.”
Girls’ voices from the stairwell, giggling and strident.
“Hi, Daddy!”
“Hi, Daddy!”
A couple of teenage girls—twins—clattered into the office on tall sandals. One blonde, one redhead. The blonde wore her hair long and straight, parted in the middle. She wore a short, flouncy skirt. The redhead wore short shorts, much more makeup, and enough chains to pass for Marley’s Ghost. Identical twins, but each of them had developed her own look. Laura guessed it was a way to maintain their individuality.
Redbone looked stricken. “Holy moly, you walked down the street like that?”
From the looks the girls gave him, Laura had the feeling he’d said words to that effect before.
“Can we take the car?” asked the blond one. “Graham wants us to help him look at boats.”
“You think that kid can afford a boat?”
Gum snapped. “Dad. We’re just looking.”
“Graham should be studying for the SATs, and so should you. By the way, this is Laura Cardinal from Arizona. That one who thinks she’s in the navel academy is Amanda, and this is Georgette.”
Georgette lifted her hand in a tiny, lacquered wave, Amanda rolled her eyes.
“Please? Can we have the car or not?” asked Amanda, for all her makeup and chains sounding like a southern belle in training.
“Yes, you can have the car. But you gotta be back by five. Your mother’s cooking roast chicken. Got that?”
They were already out the door, their thank you’s banging off the walls behind them.
Redbone shook his head. “Don’t ever have girls,” he said. “They’ll give you an ulcer, then break your bankbook.”
“There was a girl,” Chief Redbone said, in response to Laura’s question. He had to talk loud over the riding mower negotiating the lawn at the far end of Battery Park. They sat at a picnic table under a canopy of oaks, eating sandwiches bought from a deli on Market Street. Laura had asked the guy at the deli for a hoagie, and he’d looked at her as if she’d come from another planet. Chief Redbone interceded and got them over the language barrier. Next time she’d ask for a sub.
Laura looked out the little marina at the edge of Battery Park, enjoying the sight of the sailboats drowsing in the paint-peeling Gulf sun. Watching them rocking gently in the hot light had a soporific affect.
“Linnet Sobek,” Clyde Redbone said. “Thought she was a runaway.” He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “She ran off twice before. Got herself in all kinds of trouble. You know. Boys, drugs, getting drunk, fighting.” He shook his head, his eyes sad. “Only thirteen years old.”
Thinking about his daughters?
“Couldn’t really blame her. She had a rotten home life. Mother was a meth head. Lots to run away from.”
The aroma of cooking meat drifted across the park in a smoke haze. Laura glanced over at a large family group taking up two tables across the park. Kids, dogs, overweight adults in shorts and tent-like tees. She remembered Victor’s pictures from Lieutenant Galaz’s cookout. “When did she disappear?”
“2002. Early summer—June, I think. I’ve got the file back at the office. She was last seen hitchhiking on C30-A near the turnoff to Indian Pass. Telephone repairman up on a pole saw her go by.”
“You questioned him?”
“What do you think I do here? Trot myself out for the Fourth of July parade every year?”
“I’m sorry.”
“No offense taken. Man’s got to stand up for himself, especially when the big guns from Arizona come callin’.” He grinned, his expression saying no offense. “Humility is a southern trait, since we have so much to be humble about. You’re gonna choke, you scarf down that sandwich so fast.”
“It’s good.” She wiped her mouth with a wispy napkin from the deli. “Those times she ran away. Did she come back voluntarily?”
“Nope. Her brother found her both times.”
He nodded to the cold thermos at his elbow. “Sure you don’t want to try a little of the local brew?”
Sweet tea. “No thanks. What did she look like?”
“That’s the funny thing.” He balled up the butcher paper his sandwich came in and threw it into the garbage can nearby: three points. “Those photos you showed me of your victims? She looked a lot like both those girls. Pretty and blond.”
After lunch they took a tree-lined rural road, C-30A, out to Zebra Island Trading Post and Raw Bar at Indian Pass.
Laura glanced at Redbone. He drove in a desultory fashion, the seat back all the way and one freckled hand steering from the bottom of the wheel.
“Zebra Island Trading Post?” she asked.
“This is the turn-off for St. Vincent Island. St. Vincent was owned by a rich man who thought it would look good with a bunch of zebras on it.”
Before they left the park, the chief suggested that he take the lead, since he knew the owners and probably knew the clientele as well. Laura agreed; she was a fish out of water here.
Redbone swung the wheel and the patrol car slewed into a sandy parking lot, nose in to an old-fashioned country store. Under the pitched roof were a collection of weathered murals depicting an Indian chief’s head—complete with warbonnet—a pastoral scene of zebras grazing, and a giant oyster. A GONE FISHIN’ sign hung in the window.
“Well, that’s strange. I didn’t know Gary was going fishing,” Redbone said. “Guess we should’ve called first.”
They were still thinking what to do when a dull red Blazer of indeterminate age pulled into the lot. KC lights up top, jacked-up wheels. A sinewy man in a black T-shirt and camo pants emerged from the Blazer and went to the newspaper vending machines out front.
The chief buzzed down his window and cocked his elbow on the door. “Ronnie! How you doing?”
“Hey.” Ronnie came ove
r and bent his head inside the driver’s door. “How’re you?”
Chief Redbone nodded Laura’s way. “This pretty lady here is Criminal Investigator Laura Cardinal from Arizona. You know Jimmy de Seroux, don’t you?”
“Jimmy? He photographed my sister’s wedding.”
Redbone turned to Laura. “Ron’s cousin owns this place. Where is Gary, anyway?”
“Went down to St. George for a couple of days of R and R. I’m keeping an eye on the place.”
“Was Jimmy a regular?”
“Sure was. Came in at least once a week.”
“He tell you he was going anywhere?”
Ron rubbed the bristles on his chin. “As a matter of fact, he did. Said he was taking a trip to see the country.”
“When was this?”
“Long time ago. It was still cold—I remember talkin’ to him outside, and as I recall, there was a hard frost from the night before.”
“He say anything else?”
Ron thought about it. “I don’t think so.”
“You know Jimmy very well?”
“Just, he likes his burgers. Every time he come in here he ordered a burger medium rare. Ron don’t cook medium rare anymore. They’d go round and round on that.”
“Jimmy have a girlfriend?”
“Never saw him with anybody. I don’t remember him socializing with anybody, male or female. Real quiet guy, kind of kept to himself.”
“How come he told you he was going on a trip?”
“I don’t remember how that came up. Is it important?” He peered in through the window again. “Did he do something in Arizona?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Redbone said. “Somebody still breaking into those vending machines?”
“Nope. But it don’t hurt to check.”
Laura asked, “Do you know if he had an RV? Camper, motor home?”
Ron shook his head. “Heck, I was surprised when he told me he was going on a trip. Must have been feeling talkative that day.”
Back at Apalachicola PD, Redbone showed Laura the file on Linnet Sobek. It was a thin file because she was considered a missing person. The photograph attached was eerily similar in appearance to that of Alison Burns. Same heart-shaped face, big blue eyes, child’s small nose. Blond hair.
They could have been twins.
Scanning the file, Laura saw nothing that Redbone hadn’t already told her, but she asked for a copy of the file anyway.
“I’ll just run him on NCIC and see what comes up,” Redbone said.
There were no wants or warrants on a Jimmy de Seroux. No previous convictions. If he was who Laura thought he was, he had been very successful as a criminal, sailing under the radar all his adult life.
Next, Redbone checked the Motor Vehicle Division records. Jimmy de Seroux owned only one vehicle, the blue 1967 Chevrolet pickup.
“So much for the motor home theory,” the chief said. “You ask me, it’s pretty thin.”
“What’s pretty thin?”
An Apalachicola PD officer appeared in the doorway and the room decreased in size by twenty-five percent.
“Just helpin’ out a fellow peace officer run down a suspect.” Chief Redbone introduced Laura to the officer, Jerry Oliver.
Oliver took off his hat and Laura saw the sweat line in his hair above his moon face. She also noticed that his brass was unpolished, his nameplate so filmy,she couldn’t read his name.
“So who’s the guy?” Oliver said. “Maybe I know him.”
“It’s none of—“
“Jimmy de Seroux,” Laura said.
“Jimmy?” Oliver snorted. “No way. No way he’d do anything violent, considering what—”
“Jerry, did you go by Mrs. Darling’s?” Chief Redbone said. “She’s mighty agitated about that Buckner kid and his loud music.”
“I’ve talked to her three times. The kid doesn’t play that loud.”
“Well, go talk to her anyway. See if you can work it out. Use your negotiating skills.”
Oliver’s face turned stubborn, and he rested his hand on his nightstick. “Let me at least get a drink of water. It’s hot as Hades out there." He crossed over to the water cooler. “Arizona, huh? How’d you get a line on Jimmy?” he asked Laura, pouring water on his hands and rubbing his face.
“Jerry, I want you to get your butt out there now." Redbone’s voice boomed. Laura looked at him. She saw a hard light in his eyes.
“I’m goin’, I’m goin.’”
Chief Redbone watched him leave.
“That boy is the laziest sonofagun I ever saw." Back to his easy-going, affable self. Smiling, expansive. “Can’t do a thing about it, though. His daddy’s on the city council.”
When Laura got back to the Gibson Inn, she checked at the front desk for messages. Victor still hadn’t called back. She called him and got his voice mail. Left her own and paged him, too.
She wondered if Lehman had confessed. There might already be a deal in the works. And here she was in Florida with nothing.
Tilting at windmills.
She looked at her list again.
Alison Burns - similar
Dress patterns – Inspirational Woman
Motor home seen at Brewery Gulch
Motor home seen near primary crime scene
Digital camera, jewelry sent to Alison/Internet connection (?)
CRZYGRL12
The man in the photo—beach house?
Peter Dorrance
Serial killer, organized type?
Differences between Jessica and Alison: period of time kept, age, manner of death
Postmortem vs. antemortem
She had added five items to the list:
Dorrance – J. de Seroux photog
Tire treads at J’s
Linnet Sobek – last seen near oyster bar
J.S. regular at oyster bar
Linnet Sobek looks like Alison and Jessica
Chief Redbone was right: Pretty thin.
De Seroux had no criminal record. He didn’t own a motor home. And as Victor had pointed out, anyone could have downloaded Dorrance’s picture from the Internet.
Laura stared at the picture of de Seroux she had photocopied. The deadness in his eyes didn’t translate to the dark photocopy, or it could be that she had attached too much significance to it. A lot of people looked dull. Her conviction that he was Jessica’s killer was starting to evaporate.
To cheer herself up, she went out and treated herself on her own money to a good dinner. Oysters, crab cakes, and Merlot at the Owl Café. The place was small and intimate. The rest of the diners were all couples.
Usually, she wasn’t bothered about dining out alone. But tonight she felt self-conscious, as if people were looking at her. That wasn’t true—one glance at the other diners told her that. They were too concerned with each other.
Maybe that was it. She pictured Tom opposite her, their heads bent together over wine glasses. Pictured them walking out on the marina dock set in a plain of marsh and sawgrass, holding hands and watching the sun set on the water. Or on the porch at the Gibson Inn, listening to the night sounds, making out if no one else was around.
In the king-sized bed.
His presence, the way he looked at her, the quiet way he talked. Never, ever in a hurry. His life just the way he wanted it. Something to be said for that.
Except his life wasn’t exactly the way he wanted or else he wouldn’t want her.
As a cop, she always worked with a partner. Someone to watch her back, an ally. Not being alone …
It always came as a surprise to her that she didn’t have any family. There were relatives back east, people she hardly knew. She doubted they would welcome her intrusion and she didn’t want anything from them. She was used to being alone; only children were, as a rule, self-reliant.
Still, she’d always thought she would find someone. She had thought that Billy Linton would solve all her problems, that he could wipe out the idea of he
r parents dying by gunshot at close-range. Of course that had not worked. She and Billy didn’t have the stuff to sustain even a normal relationship, let alone one that was that had been banged up from the beginning. Ever since, all she had to show for a personal life was a string of failed relationships.
Now Tom was asking her to give it a try one more time. Living together wasn’t marriage, but it was a commitment. She couldn’t even think about getting married again, but she could think about sharing her house.
She paid her check and walked back to the Inn, decided to prolong the night by having another drink out on the gallery. She walked into the bar, glancing up at Jimmy de Seroux’s publicity photo.
She’d seen him before … well, of course she had. She’d studied that photograph more than a few times in the last two days. But there was something else.
Then it came to her.
Where she had seen him.
32
“What a day,” Victor said when he finally got back to Laura that night. “We really thought he was going to take a plea, but he backed out at the last minute.”
“Lehman? What did he say?”
“Nothing. He demanded to talk to his lawyer in private and that was it, man. Never came back. Is Cruller pissed!”
Roger Cruller was the county attorney.
“I knew—knew—he was going to confess. Why else did Glass call this whole fucking dog-and-pony show? And then, nada.”
Laura wondered about Lehman’s attorney, Barry Glass, who had a reputation for winning big cases. Why had he called the meeting if he didn’t want to work out a deal? Only if Lehman himself got cold feet.
“And the bad thing? We don’t have enough to arrest him at this point. The forensics on the computer could take months. You should hear the lame shit his attorney tried to feed me—like the screenplay? He said it was in the refrigerator because, get this, he wanted to protect it in case there was a fire.”
She let him rant for a while before changing the subject. “Did you run my guy’s name through NCIC?” she asked.
“I’ve been so busy, I must’ve forgot. You still want me to do it? I’ll get to it first—”