The Fault Tree

by Louise Ure

  The sky was a clear blue and the forecast was for more of the same. Mourners shuffled in the rising heat, already a hundred and not even noon yet. The men shucked off ties and dark jackets as the service droned on, and the women fanned themselves with remembrance cards from the mortuary.

  Dupree saw Cadence Moran on the edge of the crowd. Her surveillance team had backed off once Dupree radioed that he would cover her at the cemetery.

  Her new liaison with Brodie was interesting. Was it just the common bond of two people reacting to the attack on a friend? Or was it more than that? They seemed like a good match. But right now Cadence looked like as much of a spectator as he felt himself. A spectator with a guilty conscience. Between them they had first raised an accusatory finger at Darren Toller and then a gun. Cadence balled up the Kleenex in her hand and dabbed at her eyes.

  He circled behind a large white marble statue of an angel so as not to disturb the Toller family and stepped toward her.

  “Ms. Moran?”

  “Detective Dupree.”

  She probably recognized his voice but there was something almost eerie in her identification, like she was some kind of human Caller ID.

  “May I speak to you privately for a moment?” They moved two grave rows back from the crowd.

  He kept his voice low. “We have undercover cars ready to follow you back to the house and take up position down the block. Officer Luis Ortega will be inside the house with you.”

  “Thank you. We saw your officers in the truck behind us on the way over.”

  Dupree paused. “The officers on your surveillance team were on motorcycles this morning.”

  Chapter 75

  Nobody was going to try sneaking up on me with the kind of police escort Dupree gave us on the way home from the cemetery. We followed Dupree’s car and Brodie said there were two more unmarked cars behind us. No sign of a small, light-colored pickup truck.

  Dupree followed us inside, bringing with him a tall, thin officer, Luis Ortega, who wheezed when he spoke. Asthma, maybe. That gave me an idea. I called Juanita from the phone in the kitchen.

  “How are you holding up over there?” I asked. Voices behind her sounded like they were chanting.

  “You remember the longest one-syllable word in the English language?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  “It’s a toss-up now. It could be ‘prayer.’”

  “They’re praying?” The volume of chanting increased.

  “For my recovery and for the salvation of my soul. For over two hours now.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Good for the soul, honey. Bad for the headache.”

  “Got a question for you, Juanita. That stink you smelled when the guy attacked you…fruity, right? Maybe smelled sweet, like something fermenting?”

  “That’s it. Sickly sweet and acrid at the same time.”

  “I think it could be from diabetes. Remember Mark Thurley in high school? We always thought he didn’t wash, and it turned out his insulin wasn’t regulated?”

  “Of course. Diabetic ketoacidosis. God, you’re right. That’s exactly what it smelled like.”

  “Thanks. Go back to saving your soul. I’ll be in touch.”

  I hung up and went to find Dupree in the living room. “Was there someone near me at the cemetery today, a man wearing corduroy pants?” I remembered the swish of corduroy wales as he walked. At the time, I had only thought that corduroy must be hot in hundred-degree weather.

  “Yeah, I remember him,” Brodie replied when Dupree didn’t speak up. “Khaki shirt, corduroy pants. A young guy. He was standing right behind you.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Why?”

  “He may be the guy we’re looking for. Juanita and I think that smell coming from him is from diabetes, an insulin imbalance.”

  I explained about discovering my high school friend’s diabetes. “That’s what this guy smelled like today.”

  “There are lots of diabetics in the world,” Dupree said. “What made you think this guy was suspicious?”

  “When I first ran into him, he had a rake and plastic bag. Then he dropped them and joined the ceremony around the grave. It doesn’t make any sense unless he was trying to get close to me. What did he look like?”

  Dupree took notes while Brodie described the man he’d seen. “Heavy build. About five eleven. Brown hair long enough to curl under a baseball cap. Maybe nineteen, twenty.”

  “So we’re looking for a nineteen-year-old diabetic with brown hair whose insulin is out of whack and who’s driving a compact, light-colored pickup truck.” Dupree used his cell phone to call his partner. “Check stolen trucks in the area for the last two weeks. Did it have a closed back on it?” His voice had angled back toward me with the last question.

  Brodie answered for us. “A small truck, you know, a Japanese model, maybe Mitsubishi, cream colored. It had a closed bed with a tailgate—no camper shell, just something like a tarp or hard shell stretched across the bed. Arizona plates.”

  Dupree passed along the description, then hung up and gave us the news. “Two compact trucks stolen in the last couple of weeks. One was already recovered. The other was taken last Tuesday from the parking lot at the Tucson Mall. It belonged to an employee at Dillard’s and he didn’t discover it missing until the end of his shift. We’ll put out an APB on it.

  “Thanks, Mr. Brodie,” Dupree continued. “Now you’d better get out of here if we want it to look like Ms. Moran is alone in the house.”

  Brodie picked up his car keys and approached me, placing two fingers under my chin to get my attention. “Take care, Cadence. I’m heading back to the office to see if I can ramrod through some of the evidence these guys have collected. We’re going to get him. And don’t forget, I’m just a phone call away.”

  I didn’t say it out loud, but I wished that he could stay. I’d been too close to evil today. Rubbed right up against it, smelled its fiery breath. I needed some arms around me now like I hadn’t for a long time.

  God, I hoped this identification was better than what I’d done for Darren Toller. I couldn’t forgive myself if I got another innocent man killed.

  Chapter 76

  Nellis and Dupree took the stairs this time and were halfway across the office and back to their desks when Sergeant Richardson called out.

  “We’ve got a good lead on Beatrice McDougall. The owner of a clothing store on Fourth Avenue says she sold her a dress yesterday.”

  The U of A was on a summertime schedule, so they didn’t have to battle the usual herd of students trying to find parking or bicycle racks near the stores. Handmade-sandal shops and tarot card readers brushed up against designer jewelry stores and vegetarian restaurants. Fourth Avenue had started to shuck off its hippie image, but there were still enough rainbow-arched doorways and wandering homeless folks to remind shoppers about the genesis of the area.

  The Hang Up wasn’t so much a vintage clothing store as it was a custom dress shop that used vintage fabrics. Dupree introduced himself to the clerk, a tall red-haired girl wearing a feathered hat, a black skirt, and a crinkled pink blouse.

  “I understand you sold this girl a dress yesterday.” He showed her the high school photo of Beatrice he’d taken from the McDougall house.

  “She came in alone, but she kept watching the window, like she was waiting for someone.”

  “How did she seem to you? Was she nervous?”

  She looked for the right word. “Not nervous. More excited-like. She took one look at these ‘prom dress minis’ we make”—she held out a confection of Lycra, ruffles, and sequins that Dupree thought would fit a Barbie doll—“and got this big grin on her face. Said she wanted it for a special occasion.”

  “Did she say what kind of occasion?”

  “No, but she did say something funny. That normally the dress should be white, but she wanted hers to be either red or black. She wound up buying the red one.” The tiny skirt hu
laed in her hand.

  “How did she pay?” Nellis interrupted.

  “Credit card. The name on it was Mike May. She said it was her father’s card.”

  Nellis jotted down the name and took the offered credit card slip.

  “A full week missing, she’s got a credit card, and she’s going shopping for a dress for a special occasion. Does that sound like any kind of kidnapping you’ve ever heard of before?” Nellis asked when they were back in the car.

  “I’d say it’s more evidence that she’s part of this.”

  “But if she was watching for someone out the window, maybe the guy is still with her. Maybe she’s afraid of him,” Nellis said.

  “Maybe. But what kidnapper gives his prisoner that much latitude? Trusts her not to call the cops once she’s in a store and out of sight? And something else about that purchase. When she said ‘normally, the dress should be white’?”

  “Yeah, everything else in her closet was white.”

  “And what other kind of dress is normally white?” Dupree asked, glancing at his partner.

  “Oh, shit. A wedding dress.”

  Chapter 77

  A police escort, riding what sounded like a Japanese dirt bike, kept a discreet distance behind me all the way to Walt’s, and I put in four hours before my aches and pains caught up with me. Between my hit-and-runs, the damage done to Juanita, and the deaths of Wanda Prentice and Darren Toller, I hadn’t been there much in the last two weeks. Walt had been terrific about it, but I wasn’t going to be paid for hours I didn’t work. And I still had bills coming in.

  Walt had left me a tune-up, a couple of lube and oil jobs, and a radiator replacement to do. I got all of it done but the radiator and promised to finish that the next day.

  When I tapped up the driveway, the dirt bike was replaced by the sputter of a Moped behind me. It was too soon since the attack on Juanita and my nerves still jangled at each unexpected sound. Brodie’s helmet-muffled voice put me at ease.

  “Hey, Cade. I just missed you at the shop. Thought I’d come by and see if you wanted to go to lunch.”

  I let out a breath and changed my grip on Lucy from batter’s swing to promenade. “Impeccable timing, sir. I’ve got chili and corn bread in the refrigerator from last night. Want me to warm up some of that?”

  “Sounds good.” He parked the bike near the honeysuckle bushes and followed me inside. I flipped the switch to turn on the cooler but there was no answering swoosh of cold air. Damn. I had hoped to make it through the summer before putting money into a new cooling system. I opened the backdoor and my bedroom window to get a draft going.

  With the chili warming on the stove and the corn bread in the microwave, I wondered if it was too late to offer a cold salad for lunch instead.

  Forgetting food for the moment, I turned to face Brodie in the kitchen. “Do me a favor?” I placed my fingertips alongside his mouth. “Smile.”

  I traced the graceful, relaxed arc as his lips curled up.

  “Thanks.” I went back to stirring the chili.

  “You want to tell me what that was all about?”

  “Just my own prejudice. Juanita insists that there are two kinds of people in this world: those who smile with their teeth and those who don’t. I think there’s a third, those who smile with their gums showing too.” In truth, I preferred people who smiled with their voices instead.

  “And does this translate to a specific character trait or increased sexuality?”

  “Oh, it’s probably as indicative as phrenology and horoscopes. I’ve just never trusted people who smiled with their gums. Sometimes even the tooth smilers are suspect.”

  “I’ll remember that,” he exaggerated with closed-lip pronunciation.

  The doorbell rang. “Want me to answer it?” he whispered. “Or are you still supposed to look like you’re here alone?”

  “Your scooter shot that ruse all to hell. Go ahead.”

  He was back in a moment, with Detectives Dupree and Nellis in tow.

  “We tried to find you at the Crime Lab,” Nellis said to Brodie, “but your boss told us that you’d gone to the garage to see Ms. Moran. We’ve just come from there. Man, you always keep it this hot in here?”

  “Cooler’s out.” Nellis ignored my reply.

  “Your boss said you had some early results, Brodie. What can you tell us?” Dupree asked.

  “I’ve got lots of news, but it’s not all good. We got nothing off the metal button Cadence found in the driveway. There were two strands of hair caught on it and we tested them for DNA, but there’s no match in CODIS.”

  Nellis started to interrupt, but Brodie stopped him. “Most important, though, is the DNA from the chewed gum at the McDougall house. It matches the DNA from the hair on the button in the driveway.”

  “The first real proof that the murders are connected,” Dupree said. “Or at least James McDougall’s murder and the attack on Juanita. Can you confirm that it was the same knife in both those attacks?”

  “It’s not take-it-to-court definitive, but the knives used in both attacks have the same cutting characteristics and the same shape and width. That goes for the knife that killed Mrs. Prentice too.”

  “Anybody have a chance to take a look at that burned-out van we got from Mount Lemmon?” Dupree asked. “If we can tie that to the murder, even if it doesn’t have any prints on it…”

  “Whose is it?” I asked.

  “It’s registered to a Gerald Pickett. A nineteen-year-old who knew James McDougall’s daughter, Beatrice,” Dupree replied.

  “Where’s Pickett now?” I asked.

  “We’re still tracking him down. He moved from the address on his driver’s license.”

  “No prints on the van,” I mused, not realizing I’d said it out loud.

  “Wiped clean,” Brodie said.

  “Gas cap? Rearview mirror?”

  “Cadence, I know how to do my job.” He gave me a not so subtle jab with an elbow, but that wasn’t enough to deter me.

  “And not just the hood release. Check the radiator cap too. With these temperatures, the van might have overheated. Especially if I’m right about that antifreeze leak.”

  There was a pause that lasted long enough for me to believe that Brodie would take my suggestions, a pause almost long enough for an apology.

  “I’ll double-check it.”

  “Do you have any more news of the missing girl?” I asked.

  “We’ve actually got two missing girls now. Priscilla Strout has disappeared too.”

  “When?”

  “Right after you talked to her at the police station.”

  “But we know she didn’t kill her grandmother…” I didn’t understand why she would run away, right after I’d said I could prove she wasn’t there when Mrs. Prentice was killed. But maybe they hadn’t told her that.

  “We don’t know anything for sure,” Dupree admitted. “But it’s sure holding up the funeral plans for Mrs. Prentice. All those people who loved Wanda’s Story Hour have contributed to a memorial fund, but with the next of kin missing…”

  It sounded like that next of kin was still a suspect in their eyes. “Where’s the McDougall house?” I asked, changing the topic.

  “Near the intersection of Oracle and Wetmore,” Nellis said, humoring me.

  Way out on the northwest side of town. I had an idea. “Juanita and I were driving around out there a couple of weeks ago. I heard those chirps for blind person crosswalks. First time at that intersection. If they were putting in new lights and crosswalk alerts, maybe they also installed traffic cameras. I mean, I know it’s a long shot, but maybe they got a picture of the killer’s car in the neighborhood.”

  There was a pause while somebody scratched a note. “We’ll look into it,” Dupree said.

  I nodded and went back to stirring the chili.

  “Ms. Moran, your surveillance team will be changing shifts in about an hour,” Dupree said.

  “And I’ve got to get back t
o the office,” Brodie added.

  I guess he had decided not to stay for lunch. Hope it wasn’t my cooking that changed his mind. “I’ll be fine, guys. Unless one of you knows how to fix a cranky old evaporative cooler, I’m going to give my cousin Kevin a call and see if he can come help me this afternoon. This is not a day to be without airco.” I brushed damp bangs off my forehead in punctuation.

  Come April, when the temperatures first top one hundred degrees in the desert, Tucson moves to a freon-based economy. Your social standing rises if you have an air-conditioned car, and your net worth improves if your house has real air-conditioning instead of a swamp box cooler. I had no car, and a dead evaporative cooler wasn’t going to increase my sex appeal.

  When they left, I called Kevin and asked for help in resurrecting the dead machine. I knew I could handle the mechanics of the repair myself, but my leg was still sore and unsteady enough that I didn’t want to be climbing a ladder or working on the roof alone. He said he’d intended to take the afternoon off anyway, since Emily had a doctor’s appointment and he’d need to pick the girls up from school. He’d get the girls and bring them over within the hour.

  There was a tap on the open back door. “Ms. Moran? Officer Dolenz. I came around the back so no one would see me come up the front walk. My replacement should be here in just a few minutes. He phoned that he’s on his way.”

  “Thanks, Officer. My cousin’s on his way over too. But I think I’ll close up this back door till he gets here.” Ugh. It was going to feel like a Crock-Pot in here by the time Kevin arrived, but I didn’t like the idea that it had been so easy for the officer to surprise me. I hadn’t heard his approach at all.

  “Good idea, ma’am. I’ll stay until he gets here. And if you’ll have somebody here inside with you, I’ll tell the guys to just keep up the surveillance outside.”

  I thanked him again and shut the door behind him, unsure if I was imprisoning myself or keeping the bad guys out.