Carry Me Home (Paradise, Idaho)

by Rosalind James

  Zoe. It had all started with that bitch Zoe. He’d tried to finish it with her once, and he’d had to put it off. Anyway, he needed to muddy the waters. A suspect would be good, but a suspect and the loss of a witness would be even better, especially if it seemed unrelated. Two birds with one stone.

  He had a pattern. That was his strength, and his weakness. He was organized, but that made it easier to spot his pattern, even though he’d spread the love around, thrown everybody off. Once you crossed a state line, you were halfway home. And now there were four cases out there. Four witnesses. A whole lot more if you counted Iraq, and they were obviously counting Iraq.

  But if there wasn’t a pattern, it wasn’t the same guy. He knew how profilers worked. If it wasn’t the same MO, and it wasn’t even the same crime . . . it really wasn’t the same guy.

  Zoe and Cal had broken up. He was sure of it. He’d followed her leaving work a couple of times, staying well back, and she’d been alone when she’d left. He knew where she was living, and it wasn’t with Cal. Which meant that no matter what else had happened in her life, the cops would be thinking Cal first, because they always thought of the woman’s partner first. Especially her estranged partner. For good reason, because there wasn’t a man in the world who hadn’t wanted to kill the woman who’d left him, especially if she was screwing somebody else, and every cop knew it. Dress it up all you wanted, it was evolution. It was biology. All he had to do was let that work for him.

  He needed her gone, and he needed Cal under suspicion. And dead was about as gone as you could get.

  If he made it look like a lovers’ quarrel, or even a random attack. Coincidence? Yeah, but coincidences happened, too. It meant he wouldn’t be having much fun at all, and that was a real loss, but sacrifices had to be made. Dump the pattern completely. Different place, different MO, no rituals, no calling cards. Just the heat of the moment, and she was gone, and whodunit? Nobody more likely than Cal. Nobody at all.

  Or better yet, suicide. What could be more likely than that? She’d been attacked, wasn’t in her right mind. She was falling apart. Her boyfriend had dumped her, because they always dumped them afterward. Nobody wanted damaged goods, and he always made sure they were damaged. Zoe might not have gotten all the attention she deserved, but she was damaged just the same. He could see it in the jerky way she walked. All he had to do was leave the possibility open, and he knew exactly how.

  If he was going to do it, he should do it now, and there would be nothing easier. All he had to do was plan some surprise inspections. A five-minute detour beforehand, and if he were seen on the street—nothing more natural, because he would belong on the street.

  People in the building, though. But that was easy, too, he realized when he thought about it. He’d do it in the late afternoon, because all these assholes went home at five like they were punching a time clock. All of them but Zoe. Miss Conscientious. It would be dark, and he could come up the far staircase, and then out the same way.

  It wasn’t without risk, but then, nothing worth doing ever was. Doing nothing was even riskier, and anyway, doing nothing wasn’t his style. What was life without risk? Boring, that was what.

  Time to make his move. He’d waited long enough.

  A PIECE OF PIE

  “You know I’m not allowed to talk to you about this,” were Jim’s first words as he slid into the booth at the Garden Café.

  It was mid-December, more than a month had passed since the investigation had begun, and from everything Cal could tell, the cops were not one bit closer.

  “I’m not wearing a wire,” he told his cousin, “and I’m buying the pie. If something slips out by accident while you’re eating, I’ll never tell.”

  “This is my job,” Jim reminded him. “Those are the rules, and they’re there for a reason.”

  “Come on, man. You’re my cousin. And we’re talking about Zoe’s safety here.”

  “Thought she was staying with your folks. And your dog.”

  The waitress hustled up to take their order, and conversation ended for a couple minutes.

  “She is staying with them,” Cal said after she’d left, “and you heard right, I’ve got Junior over there every night. Nobody’s getting into that house that he doesn’t want to let in. But what about when she’s not at home?”

  “You know,” Jim said, “somehow I have a feeling you’ve taken care of that, too. And I don’t want to know, because she can’t have gotten that concealed-weapons permit yet.”

  “She’s at the university all day long,” Cal pointed out. “Without Junior. Without any protection.”

  “And you care about this so much, why?” Jim asked, taking a sip of coffee. “For a smart guy, you aren’t always too smart, are you?”

  “Nope,” Cal said, “I’m not. Thanks for pointing that out. I should just wash my hands of her, then? We’re not together anymore, so it’s okay for somebody to rape her? You read those reports. You know what he does. So come on. Tell me what you’ve got. Tell me what I can do.”

  “What you can do,” Jim said, “is just exactly nothing. What we’ve got . . .” He stopped again, took a bite of the apple pie the waitress set in front of him, and sighed. “All right. Here you go. The Air Force is cooperating. They’ve wanted this mutt, too, thought he was one of theirs, like I said at the time, and they were real glad to know about the pattern we’re seeing stateside. They’ve got OSI on it, because they think—”

  “OSI,” Cal said.

  “Office of Special Investigation. Taking it out of the Security Forces’ hands—the MPs.”

  “In case he was one.”

  “Jumping right to that conclusion again, aren’t you? Which would be why you aren’t a cop. Maybe just because it’s better to have the investigation happen from outside for something this big. They’re pulling the service records of every guy who was in Iraq at the right times and who was stationed at Fairchild afterwards for the past couple years. Which is a whole hell of a lot of guys. Checking into who fits, doing some discreet questioning, when they can find anybody still around to question, and they’ve promised to pass along anything interesting to us if the guys aren’t at Fairchild anymore, if they got out and ended up around here. But it’s all a slog, and it’s going to take time.”

  “If the guy wasn’t at Fairchild at all, though,” Cal said.

  “They’re looking at that, too,” Jim said. “But that’s even slower. And they’re thinking . . .” He looked at Cal. “I didn’t say this.”

  “Nope,” Cal said, sitting up straighter. “Say what?”

  “Information. That’s the key. The women, at least the ones here—they thought they’d been followed after classes. Afterwards, they all said what Amy said. That they’d felt like somebody was following them, had been uneasy. Which means he was able to get class schedules, probably living situations, too. You can’t follow somebody day after day to find that out, not on this size of campus, let alone up there at College of Northern Idaho. Not if he isn’t a student, isn’t the right age, because he’d stand out, hanging around after class to follow her, trailing her back to her dorm. They’re looking at somebody with a specialty that would allow for that, some computing background, maybe. Which is why they’re looking at a security specialist, or just a tech weenie. Fits the profile better, actually. This guy isn’t just a basher. He’s a planner.”

  “MP,” Cal said slowly.

  “Which is why Greg’s off the case,” Jim said. “Even though their profiler says no. He says, wrong kind of guy. Our mutt’s a planner. Organized creep. Greg would be disorganized all the way. You know him as well as I do.”

  “He wasn’t told that was why, was he?” Cal asked with alarm.

  “No. Far as I know, he got reamed out for how he handled it, which was true, too. Didn’t push it up the chain fast enough, didn’t investigate hard enough. Don’t think he’s long for t
he job there, no matter what, and you didn’t hear that here, either. He’s had some issues with excessive force.”

  “And Kathy’s left him, my mom says,” Cal pointed out. “Gone home to her mom, finally. With the kids. All kinds of anger there, and it’ll only be worse now. Which could make him our guy, no matter what some profiler says.”

  “Which could,” Jim said. “And they’re looking at that, which I didn’t say. That’d be hell to pay for Kathy and the kids, whether they’re with him or not. I hope for their sakes it isn’t him.”

  “They got any other suspects?”

  Jim hesitated. “Yeah,” he said. “And I’m not going to tell you who they are,” he added before Cal could say anything. “Because I know you. You’d go after them. Screw up the whole investigation, for one thing. And for another thing, you’re a civilian. This isn’t a football field, you don’t know what you’re doing, and you’re not in charge. You’re not on the team. You’re not even the water boy. So stay out of it. I know Hollywood would like you to think that law enforcement are all idiots, but we’re going to get there. This has priority, and it’s going to happen. But it all takes time,” he repeated. “You don’t go arresting somebody because he’s an asshole who was an MP in Iraq, and now he lives here. We actually need evidence. That’s the way the system works.”

  “The way the system works is too damn slow.”

  “Yep,” Jim said. “And that’s the system we’ve got.” He finished wolfing his pie, declined another cup of coffee, and stood to go. “So, you just let us handle it,” he warned again. “Protect her all you want, and man—” He shook his head. “You’re a bigger man than I am, I’ll tell you that right now, because I couldn’t do it. But let us handle this.”

  Cal didn’t go with him. Instead, he lingered over another cup of coffee.

  Somebody who could track them. Somebody who knew where they lived, what their schedule was. A cop could find that out. Couldn’t he?

  He thought about staying out of it. He really did. For about thirty seconds. And then he thought of a way.

  “Well, hey,” he said when he walked into the housing office, offering the woman at the front desk his best lazy cowboy grin. “How you doin’? Cal Jackson, here to talk to the big guy. He in?”

  Her hand had gone to the hair, which told him he’d got it right. “Mr. Winston? No, sorry, Mr. Jackson, I’m not sure where he is. He must have just stepped out.”

  “Mr. Jackson’s my dad. It’s just Cal. Mind if I wait a sec?”

  “Of course.” She indicated the chair on the other side of her desk, trying to keep it cool. “Did you have an appointment with him? I can’t believe he’d be late.”

  Another woman walked through carrying a sheaf of papers, saw the two of them, faltered, and Cal gave her a smile for good measure. “How you doin’?” he said again. “You know, you two ladies could probably help me some, too, if you’ve got a minute.” Sometimes, the women who did the actual work knew the most. They’d probably been here the longest, too. And women usually talked to him.

  “Sure, if we can,” the woman opposite him said.

  Cal read the nameplate in front of him. “Vanessa. That’s a real pretty name. I had a girlfriend named Vanessa once. I have to say—” He sighed. “I’m guessing you’re a whole lot brighter.”

  She laughed. Defenses down. Check. “Well, I hope so.”

  Cal stood up, addressed the other woman. “I’m sure hoping you’ll sit down, too, because my mama always told me not to sit when a lady was standing, and I’m real tired.”

  She looked around a little nervously. Young, pretty, and what did she have to be nervous about? “Mr. Winston doesn’t like us to waste time,” she said.

  “Mr. Winston isn’t here,” Vanessa said with a snap to her tone. “And Cal’s not asking us to waste time. He has a housing question. Sit down, Isabel.”

  “Isabel.” Cal smiled. “Another good name. Please. Sit down.”

  “At least,” Vanessa told Cal when the young woman had perched on the edge of the chair as if she were about to take flight, “I assume it’s a housing question. What can we do for you?”

  “Well, you know,” Cal said, scratching the back of his head and leaning back, “I gave this little gift to the university recently. The idea of it is to attract the best students, you know, especially women, make sure there are opportunities for them in-state so they don’t have to leave to get good jobs.”

  Except some of them, of course. Some of them left anyway.

  “We heard about that,” Vanessa said, glancing at the other woman.

  “And a friend of mine was saying,” Cal said, “a female friend, that I’d overlooked something. That I hadn’t thought enough about women being safe on campus. And after I looked into that a little, I thought, well, duh. I guess men don’t always know what women go through.”

  “No,” Vanessa said, “they sure don’t. Are you asking about safe housing?”

  “Exactly.” Cal beamed at her. “And it just occurred to me that your boss might not be as concerned about that, or as tuned into that, either, as you ladies probably are. I mean things like, how hard does the university make it to know who’s living where? Suppose some guy has a class with a girl, and he’s a little off. Suppose he’s, oh, some technical whiz. Or not even a student at all, somebody working in an office like this. If he’s even a cop, say. In law enforcement somewhere. Just to get all wild, take it to the max,” he apologized as the women exchanged glances. “Could he get her address? Her phone number? Because all those things are on file, right?”

  “Well, of course,” Isabel said. “But the records are encrypted. They’re secure, unless there’s a reason for somebody to get into the database. I mean, I guess the police, but other than that . . . no. We’ve never had a data breach that I know of. That’s my job,” she said a little proudly, a little self-consciously, too. “To keep the information safe. So, no. Unless somebody actually worked here or I suppose in IT, or in the registrar’s office, or for the police, like you say. They’d be able to get in, because those guys can get into anything.”

  “And just about everyone working in this office or over at the registrar’s is a woman,” Vanessa said. “Anybody doing anything with computers, anyway.”

  “Really.” Cal raised his eyebrows. Unfortunately, this was about as far as he could push it with these two, because they wouldn’t know exactly what the police had access to. Winston would, though. And if Cal was right, he was done waiting for any process. It was going to be time to pay Greg a visit. Better safe than sorry. If he was wrong, well, he might have punched out his cousin, who’d earned it over and over.

  But he was here and Winston wasn’t, so he sat back and relaxed. Might as well keep them chatting, see if he got anything else. “And yet the director’s a man. Huh. See? What I’m talking about. But he’s probably been here forever.”

  “No,” Vanessa said, and she looked like she wasn’t happy about it. “Barely a year.”

  “Hmm,” Cal said. “A long year, I take it.”

  “Huh.” She snorted. “You could say that.”

  “Came in from outside and took the job over somebody who should have had it?” Cal guessed. “And that somebody was a woman?”

  “You’ve got it,” Vanessa said. “The good-ol’-boys’ network.”

  “It was the military thing, I think,” Isabella put in.

  “What military thing?” Cal asked.

  “Mr. Winston worked in housing for the military,” Isabel said. “And the vice president of operations is an ex-military guy, too.”

  “The vice president of operations is an ex-military guy,” Cal said slowly. Who would have access to absolutely everything, in that job.

  “About a hundred years ago,” Isabel said, loosening up a little. “I think he was all impressed with Mr. Winston because he acts like he was in the dan
ger zone, like he was all secret Special Forces or something, when he was in housing. Just like us. Same exact thing.”

  “Where did Winston come from, then?” Cal asked, the hair on his back of his neck standing up straight. He kept it casual with a major effort.

  “Francis Xavier,” Vanessa said. “You know, the Catholic school up in Spokane. He was their housing director, for just a year or so, I think, and then he came down here, I guess because we’re bigger.”

  “We thought, good news,” Isabel put in. “Well, me and the other girls. Because our last director was really grouchy, couldn’t wait to be retired, made it really tense in here. He’d yell at you when you made a mistake. And Mr. Winston was young and good-looking. But he’s . . . he’s even worse.”

  “Oh?” Cal tried to look encouraging.

  “Not outright,” Isabel said, “but underneath. Cold.”

  “You think that, too?” Cal asked Vanessa.

  “You bet I think it. You can’t exactly miss it. Gone half the time, too,” she said, on a roll now. “Lazy. Comes in whenever he likes, leaves for ‘meetings.’ Not fooling any of us. He shoves everything off on the staff, and what are we supposed to do about it? Who would we complain to? It’s not fair, not when he’s making twice what anybody else here does. He says it’s because of the carpal tunnel, that he can’t type for more than a few minutes. But I’ve known a lot of people with carpal tunnel, and I don’t believe it. I think it’s an excuse.”

  “Wait,” Cal said. “Carpal tunnel? Isn’t that your hands?”

  “Yeah,” Vanessa said. “It gets really painful, and you really can’t type, not if you actually have it, that is. He’s got all the equipment, all right. Got the splints on both wrists, the arm supports fixed to his desk. He’s got the works, and complains about it plenty, too. But I never knew anybody with carpal tunnel who didn’t start out small. Who didn’t start with numbness, tingling, because that’s what it is, your nerves. They don’t even know what it is at the beginning. Then it aches, and then you go in and find out that’s what it is, get the splints. Not all at once. Not without complaining. He would have complained. He would have bitched.”