by John Lutz
“I found out the police are watching her. And around the clock.”
“Question is,” Stone asked, “were the police watching you while you were watching Madeline Scott?”
“Not a chance. I’m sure about that, Palmer. I’m a pro.”
“So are the police. Especially Quinn.”
“We’re okay on this,” Victor said. “When the cops lose interest in her, then maybe we should delete her.”
“Maybe,” Stone agreed.
“I know,” Victor said, with a smile. “You’ll think about it.”
But what Palmer Stone was actually thinking about was the police surveillance of Madeline Scott. How long had she been under observation? Why would they be watching her?
What did it mean?
67
“Som’un’s out there,” Cathy Lee said sleepily.
It was a warm, muggy Louisiana morning, and the drone of swamp insects was almost louder than the sound of the car rolling over muddy ruts to park outside the ramshackle house.
Cathy Lee looked over at Joe Ray, who was snoring lightly, lying on his stomach with his face half buried in his pillow. Juan was in the other bedroom, quiet for a change. Usually he snored loud enough to rattle the leaves on the trees, which was why Cathy Lee had her and Joe Ray’s door shut.
Cathy Lee crawled out of bed, crossed the bare plank floor, and peeked out the window.
Her heart gave a jump.
A sheriff’s department car was parked out there in the shade of the big willow tree. She knew there was enough incriminating evidence in the meth lab to get all three of them locked up for years. She glanced behind her. Maybe she could slip out the back, run out on Joe Ray and Juan. She was sure they wouldn’t hesitate to run out on her. The truck was parked out in back of the house, and she could get in and drive away.
But the big engine turning over would make a lot of noise. Somebody would surely hear it. And the sheriff’s car might give chase.
She watched the car door open and a tall, broad-shouldered sheriff’s deputy got out and looked around. It was hot, and he’d left his Smokey hat in the car. A young guy with a buzz cut, real good-looking. Kathy decided maybe she could handle him, go out and see what he wanted (not that she didn’t know), and divert him from looking in the outbuilding.
Careful not to wake Joe Ray, she put on her white terry-cloth robe, making sure it was open enough to reveal cleavage. Then she did what she could with her hair and sidled out onto the porch without slamming the door.
The deputy looked at her and smiled. It made him look ten years younger. Maybe this would be easy.
“Mornin’, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Sheriff’s Deputy O. E. Simmons.”
“Mornin’ to you, Sheriff’s Deputy O. E. Simmons. I’m Cathy Lee Aiken, an’ I’m at your service.” She almost smiled and saluted, but figured that might be too much.
He didn’t respond as she thought he would. His smile stayed stuck on but dimmed, and she realized he simply had one of those faces, was one of those people who smiled through everything because that was the way their features were set. And on second glance, he didn’t look so young. Not if you paid attention to his eyes.
“Anybody else in the house?” he asked.
She was looking at the big 9mm handgun perched on his hip. The eyes and the gun. Best not to lie to this man. “Two fellas. Joe Ray an’ Juan.”
“That’s three.”
“No, sir. Joe Ray is one fella.”
“Uh-hum.” He moved in closer to her. There were crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, as if he’d squinted into the sun too much.
He didn’t react as she took the three sagging wood steps down off the porch to meet him, letting the robe part to reveal a lot of leg. His eyes told her he wasn’t interested in her in the way she wanted. Out of the shade of the porch roof, she was the one squinting into the sun, at him. Are you gay, Deputy O. E. Simmons?
“You come here to see one of ’em?” she asked.
“If one or both of ’em might own the truck we found out in the swamp.”
Cathy Lee breathed easier. When they’d gotten the F-150 retitled and painted a dark blue (her favorite color), Joe Ray and Juan had ditched the rusty old Dodge off the road in the swamp about a mile from the house. That shoulda been the end of it. Something given up to the swamp you could put out of your mind as gone for good. She guessed there hadn’t been enough time for the saw grass to grow up where the truck had mashed it down, and somebody’d spotted the old hulk and reported it to the state police.
“We got a problem?” a voice asked.
Joe Ray had awakened and stumbled sleepy eyed out onto the porch. He was shirtless and barefoot but had pulled on his old jeans. There was a rip in one leg, revealing a dirty knee.
“It’s about the old Dodge truck we left in the swamp,” Cathy Lee said. She looked at the deputy. “Have we broken some kinda law?”
Simmons looked puzzled, still with the smile that wasn’t a smile. “This wasn’t a Dodge. It was a near-brand-new Ford.”
Joe Ray had started down the porch stairs and almost fell. He looked panicky for a moment. Cathy Lee realized she was standing with her mouth hanging open.
“Somethin’ wrong?” the deputy asked.
“We got that truck all legal,” Joe Ray said too defensively.
Simmons narrowed his eyes. These two were acting as if he’d happened onto a Mafia meeting. “You the one left it stuck out there in the mud?”
“I don’t know nothin’ about it. My friend Juan was drivin’ it last night.”
“Where would he be?”
“In the house, fast asleep. Musta had a late night.”
The deputy rested his right palm on the top of his black leather holster and glanced off to the side.
“What’s in that outbuilding?”
“Gardenin’ tools. That kinda stuff,” Joe Ray said.
“I never noticed any plantin’ around here when I drove in.”
“I hear somethin’ about a truck?” Juan asked. He’d come out onto the porch. He was barefoot, like Joe Ray, but wearing a white T-shirt with his jeans.
“The Ford truck,” Joe Ray said. “You know.”
“I was on my way home from Rodney’s Roadhouse last night,” Juan said, “an’ got it stuck in the mud. Woulda thought that was impossible with that big Ford, it havin’ four-wheel drive an’ all, but I missed a turn an’ drove it well off the road. I gave up after tryin’ to get it out an’ walked the rest of the way here. Truck’s still where I left it, I guess.”
“Yeah, I saw it,” the trooper said. “Need a tractor or somethin’ with a winch to pull it out.”
“You got that right.”
“You have a snootful when you left Rodney’s?”
“Two beers, is all. You can ask Rodney.”
“I’ve always trusted Rodney. Weren’t drinkin’ behind the wheel, were you?”
Juan’s smile was sheepish. He hadn’t been high on booze last night, but on something else. “I can honestly say no, officer.”
“I don’t know a damned thing about that truck,” Cathy Lee said.
Anger flashed in Joe Ray’s eyes. “You rode in it enough. You even got yourself—”
“Best not go there, Joe Ray,” Cathy Lee said.
“We can show you where we left the old Dodge,” Juan said, tumbling to what might be a dangerous development. Showing a little cooperation and changing the subject. Maybe they should invite the cop inside, where he or Joe Ray could get close to a gun. Not that they wanted to kill a sheriff’s deputy, but if it came down to that…
“Uh-hm.” Simmons looked from one of them to the other. “Forget the Dodge. I gotta say I’m curious about the Ford truck. Big F-150.”
“It ain’t stole,” Joe Ray said. “You can check.”
“Already did. I wonder if we looked in the cab, we’d find some beer cans or liquor bottles. Maybe even some illegal substance.”
“Not on your life,” Juan sai
d, using a forefinger to cross his heart.
“Truck’s not very far from here,” the deputy said. “Let’s go see.”
Juan shrugged. Joe Ray looked worried.
“Seemed far enough when I was walkin’ it last night,” Juan said.
“You can stay here, ma’am,” the deputy said to Cathy Lee. “We’ won’t be more’n fifteen, twenty minutes.” He looked at Juan and Joe Ray. “I’ll drive, since you’ve got no vehicle. I apologize, but you two’ll have to sit in back, where we usually transport prisoners.” Without averting his gaze from them, he walked over to the car and opened a rear door.
Joe Ray and Juan glanced at Cathy Lee and ambled over to get in the backseat. They both had their thumbs tucked in their front jeans pockets. Joe Ray, leaning over to enter the car first, got a look at the steel grille separating the front and back of the interior, and the absence of inside door handles. There was a control for the window to go up and down, but he knew it would be dead.
Halfway into the car, he hesitated and turned and looked back at Deputy Simmons. “This ain’t a trick, is it?”
“No kinda trick I know of,” Simmons said. “Just regulations, sir. We got passengers, there’s where they gotta sit.”
Joe Ray nodded and disappeared into the back of the car. Juan followed.
As the deputy walked around to get in behind the steering wheel, he glanced over at Cathy Lee. His smile seemed genuine again. And at this distance, he was youthful again.
“This is just a formality. We won’t be long, ma’am.”
“I’ll make some coffee,” she said.
When the sheriff’s deputy’s car reached the spot where the F-150 was bogged down off the road, Simmons steered slightly onto what passed for a shoulder and braked to a halt. The back of the blue truck’s bed was visible through lush green foliage. Flattened-out grass and some sheared-off small saplings showed where the big Ford had gone in. The road had curved, and the truck had gone straight and just missed some good-sized cypress tree trunks, one on each side. It hadn’t missed their lower branches.
“Looks like you broke some wood goin’ in,” Simmons said over his shoulder.
“Tell you the truth, I mighta fell asleep at the wheel,” Juan said. “I got sleep watchamacallit—a sleep disorder—so I’m tired most of when I’m awake, doze off unexpectedly at the darnedest times.”
“Sleep apnea,” the deputy said. “Doctor can treat that for you.”
“I don’t wanna wear one of them breathin’ apparatus things when I sleep,” Juan said. “Looks to me like they’d suffocate you.”
“Cure your sleep apnea,” Joe Ray said.
“I’ll be right back,” the deputy said and climbed out of the car and shut the door before they could answer.
Deputy Simmons didn’t look back at them as he approached the truck. Morning sunlight slanted in low through the trees, and the F-150’s bulbous blue tailgate gleamed like an Easter egg badly hidden among the greenery.
When he was as close to the vehicle as he’d been last time, Simmons rolled up his uniform pants and waded into shallow, brackish water. He thought about removing his shoes, but it wasn’t worth the risk of stepping on something. Or getting bitten by something. Besides, the sheriff’s department would compensate him for a pair of regulation shoes ruined in the performance of his duties. He hoped. There was no other, dry way to reach the damned truck.
He felt the cool water rise on his bare legs, then spill into his leather shoes. His socks were soaked within seconds.
All in the job.
When he got to the mired truck, he attempted to open the driver’s-side door and found it locked. He could see across the cab that the opposite door was also locked.
Laugh’s on me.
In part so he wouldn’t look foolish to the two men confined in the rear of the cruiser, he began a slow, sloshing circuit of the truck, making a show of examining its exterior.
When the one called Juan had driven it into the swamp, the branches had scratched it considerably. One deep gouge in the right front fender revealed black paint beneath the blue.
Black.
Simmons was pretty sure the truck hadn’t been manufactured with black primer paint. This vehicle had been repainted. It was awfully new for a repaint, unless it had been in an accident.
Standing and staring at where black paint showed through some other, smaller scratches, the deputy suddenly remembered it hadn’t been that long ago when every lawman in the South was looking for a black Ford F-150. It had been stolen by that Coulter guy who’d been found dead and full of shotgun pellets about ten miles down the state road. This truck had a different license plate number, but that was no surprise.
Sheriff’s Deputy O. E. Simmons decided to leave the two men locked in the backseat of his car for a while. Wading back toward the car, he was surprised to realize he was excited. Somebody had sure as hell shot Coulter, the Torso Murderer, and left his dead body on the side of the road. Maybe it was the two assholes in the back of the patrol car. A couple of killers. Wouldn’t that be some collar? Maybe get him elected sheriff someday.
Slow down, slow down…. Don’t jump to conclusions, get ahead of yourself, and screw up royally.
Simmons played it casual and acted like there was nothing wrong as he drove the two men back to the ramshackle house. He parked where he had last time, in the shade of a big willow.
Cathy Lee Aiken was nowhere in sight outside.
“Any guns in the house?” Simmons asked the two men behind him, making it a casual, routine question.
“Not as I know of,” Juan said.
“Not a one,” Joe Ray said. “I got an old shotgun, but it’s back in the truck. Broke down proper an’ outta sight behind the seat back.”
Leaving the two men confined in back, Simmons locked the car and left it. He went up on the plank porch with his gun drawn. Knocked. Got no answer. Knocked again. Same result. He could feel the hot sun on the back of his neck.
“Ma’am?”
Silence.
He tried the knob and found the door unlocked.
When he glanced back at the patrol car, he saw the two men staring at him intently through the back side window. The skinny one, Joe Ray, actually had his nose pressed to the glass.
The deputy hurled the door open and went into the house fast, gun level and held before him with both hands. Keeping his arms rigid, he swept the barrel from side to side.
The living room was unoccupied.
With his heart lodged low in his throat, he checked out the two bedrooms and found them also unoccupied. A ceiling fan was turning slowly in the bedroom with the double bed. There was a used condom on the floor. There was also a double-barreled shotgun leaning in a corner.
So much for no guns in the house.
As he entered the tiny, unoccupied kitchen, he smelled it.
He relaxed and holstered his gun.
The coffee was on, but Cathy Lee was gone.
68
Sometimes love was grand.
Linda had brought some take-out Chinese to Quinn’s apartment, and they were eating lunch at the tiny table in the kitchen. It was comfortably cool despite the outside temperature of almost ninety. Quinn was having orange-flavored chicken; Linda, moo goo gai pan. They shared egg rolls and a large foam container of white rice. Quinn had gotten some bottled water from the refrigerator to drink and put it in tumblers with ice so it would stay plenty cold..
The kitchen smelled good with the aroma of food and soy seasoning. Quinn thought it remarkable that he didn’t feel strange sitting here sharing a meal in this kitchen, at this table, with a woman other than May or their daughter, Lauri. So many years in the apartment with May, with Lauri growing up. Then the divorce, and Lauri coming back to live briefly with Quinn, while May stayed in California with her new husband.
Now they were both in California, May and Lauri, and here was Quinn in the apartment with a woman named Linda. A stranger to them, and sometimes to him.
They ate for a while in slow silence while the world moved at its own pace outside the kitchen.
“Nift’s got a bean up his nose about something,” Linda said, dipping her egg roll into sweet-and-sour sauce.
“Could be my fault,” Quinn said. He took a sip of water. “I’m afraid I made him aware that Renz knows he’s had someone in the medical examiner’s office sitting on postmortem information.”
“That gonna be looked into? An official investigation?”
“It’s unlikely, but Nift doesn’t know that.”
“No wonder he’s been nervous lately.” Linda chewed and swallowed her bite of egg roll. Quinn loved to watch her throat work. “The little twit deserves whatever they do to him.”
“He’s not the only informer in the medical examiner’s office.”
Linda looked alarmed, then smiled. “Well, sure, there’s me. But that’s different.”
“Because you’re on the side of the good guys?”
“Damned right.”
Quinn grinned at her. “You are so different from Nift.”
“God, I hope so!”
He sipped from his condensation-slippery glass of water and appraised her. “When we’re finished with lunch—”
“I’ll go back to work,” she interrupted. “And aren’t you supposed to be out trying to catch the bad guys?”
“Haven’t you heard? The Torso Murderer was shot to death down South.”
“Must have hurt like hell, being shot down south.”
Did she believe me?
“You sound skeptical,” he said.
“More like realistic. How long do you think that farfetched Tom Coulter story’s gonna hold up?”