by M. Z. Kelly
After searching Glover’s trailer, we found a ransom note meant for Susan’s parents. Our copycat was apparently planning on blackmailing them in exchange for a promise to return their daughter. From what we’d found in his trailer, it was obvious that he had no intention of Susan surviving her ordeal. We could only speculate that somehow Glover had gotten inside information, maybe from someone in law enforcement, that the real killer always left the Chinese death symbol when he took his victims, something he’d copied.
“Score one for the blue team,” Dawson said. He stuffed a forkful of steak in his mouth, chewed, then said, “Know what I think?”
I pushed the remnants of a tri tip salad around my plate. “Can’t wait to hear.”
We were in a restaurant called, The Station, across the street from our motel. The eatery had a theme involving the oil industry that thrived in the area. It was full of antique tools and equipment. Hass had recommended it after Dawson said he was going to make me pay up on my earlier offer to buy dinner. Hass’s partner, Ray Barrett, was in the hospital recovering from his gunshot and probably hitting on his nurse.
“Take away the knife or the gun or the paintbrush,” Dawson said, “And you’ve got nothing but a whiny little motherfucker who complains that he didn’t get enough tit or his daddy was a dick. Drill down a little deeper and you’ll find a kill gene in his DNA. You ask me, they all deserve to die. No exceptions.”
“Guess I know where you stand.” I checked my watch. “Speaking of that, if he sticks to his schedule, we have only a few hours left to find the real Artist.”
“Yeah and three problems: no letter and no vic, means no motherfucker.”
I set my plate aside. The day’s events had taken away both my appetite and my strength. I knew we were in for a long night and ordered a cup of coffee when the waitress came over.
“Any word on Ryan Cooper?” Dawson asked, glancing at the crossword puzzle on the table beside him after our server left.
My brows knitted together as my eyes threw sparks at him. “What? How the hell did you…”
His pale blue eyes found me. “Greer. When he told me I was being teamed with…”
“A woman?”
He nodded. “I retired again…but then thought better of it after he told me about your dad.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’re on a mission, chasing ghosts. It gives you an edge. I like that.”
I didn’t know what to say. After a pause I shook my head. “Nothing on Cooper, so far.” We were quiet for a moment before my thoughts surfaced. “Tell me something. Why did you want a Hollywood cop?”
“Hard to say right now. I’ll let you know if it plays into things later.”
I had no idea what he meant but that wasn’t unusual. Something else then occurred to me. “No wonder you were able to profile me. Greer gave you my entire background.”
He smiled. “Could have done it without his help. Doesn’t take a genius.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re an open book, Kate.”
I realized it was the first time he’d used my first name. “Never mind. I don’t need your bullshit theories.”
He regarded me for a moment. “You’re just like I was a few years back.”
I scoffed. “Hardly.”
He shrugged. “I think you’ve got a blue-eyed soul.”
I did an eye roll, breathed. “I have green eyes in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I’m talking about your soul, Sexton. Despite the evil you see in the world, you want to do the right thing, make the world a better place. Believe it or not I was like that once.”
Before I could stop myself, I said, “What the hell happened?”
He laughed. It was the first time I’d seen him laugh. It looked good on him. “Murder, mayhem, violence. All the stuff that goes on in the world that you don’t know about when you’re a kid. Maybe that’s why my eyes are so pale. It all sneaks up on you, eventually steals your soul.”
I didn’t respond. What he’d said rang true. I’d seen it happen to other cops, leaving in its wake alcoholism, broken marriages, even a few suicides. I’d also felt it catching up with me over the past few years. The truth about what happened to my father, what his killer had done to my birthmother, and the threat he’d made to me had brought it all home. I suddenly felt sad and empty.
The server brought my coffee over. I changed the subject. “Why the puzzles?” I asked, motioning to the crossword beside him.
“Being a cruciverbalist has its advantages.”
“A what?”
“Someone who solves crossword puzzles.” He tapped his big head. “Keeps the old noggin in shape.”
I took a sip of my coffee, then smiled. “Maybe you’re the exception.”
He returned the smile. “Take the word crook, for example. We could be talking about a robber, a rogue, a villain, or a scoundrel. The word could also refer to bending your finger or the place where a tree branches.” He stroked his big jaw. “It’s all a matter of interpretation and making it fit with the puzzle. It’s a little like police work, making the pieces come together while chasing down the real crooks out there.”
My eyes fixed on him for a long moment, realizing there was a lot more to Joe Dawson than the tough talking cop I’d dealt with all day. “I think you’re an enigma.”
“Come again?”
“A conundrum, a puzzle, someone who doesn’t easily fit into a mold.”
He’d finished his meal, set the plate aside. “I think I’m just the opposite. What you see is what you get, unlike the bastards we chase.”
What he’d said made me remember something that had crossed my mind earlier in the day. “Tableau,” I said. “Do you know what the word means?”
Now he did an eye roll. “Of course. It’s an illustration or spectacle. Or in the case of The Artist, it’s an exhibition.”
“Yes, but I had a thought earlier today when the professor was talking about the victims. Maybe the guy’s after something bigger.”
“As in?”
I pushed my half empty coffee cup aside. “I’ve been thinking about his letter and the victims—the girls. I know he uses them as a canvass and puts them on display, but I’m wondering if they’re all part of a bigger picture he has in mind.”
“You mean like a bigger painting?”
“It could be. I’m not sure.”
Dawson pushed back from the table, used his napkin. “When you figure it out, let me know.” He stood up. “See you in an hour. Go freshen up, do something with your hair, and don’t be late again.”
***
I’d almost forgotten about my Halle Berry do. I trudged upstairs and took a shower, thinking about my roommates. After I’d dressed and did what I could with my hair, I brought my laptop over to the desk in the room. In a moment I had Natalie and Mo on Skype.
“Did ya nail the killer yet,” Natalie asked. “Mo and me got a bet going that you’ll be home quicker than a jack rabbit doing the bunny hump.”
“Save your money,” I said. “I’ve still got some work to do.” I’d called my mom earlier and checked in with her and Bernie. It brought Bubba to mind. “How’s our new puppy working out?”
“I’m a little worried about him,” Mo said. “He’s been going upstairs, hanging out with Nana and Elvis. If he watches those two do the nasty he’s gonna need a canine shrink. ”
“Especially if they’re doing it doggy style,” Natalie added.
“Don’t let him up there,” I said, trying to suppress the visual. “I’ve got enough problems with Bernie.” I then remembered they were taking a class at the college and asked them about it.
“Dudley Wainright’s the bomb,” Natalie said. They were sitting on the sofa and I saw Mo do an eye roll as Natalie went on about their class profiler’s intelligence, charm, and good looks. “He told us he thinks Ryan Cooper’s working in another state.”
“What? You didn’t tell him about Co
oper, did you?” I asked, hearing the anxiety in my voice at the thought of the profiler turned reporter getting wind of the circumstances surrounding my father’s killer.
“No worries,” Mo said. She was brushing her hair, which tonight was a short red wig. “When we talked about the case we used the code name Harry Oyster and we made up a story about Cooper killing an old girlfriend. Dudley doesn’t got a clue ‘bout what’s really going on.”
“We also got a lead on the dirty wanker,” Natalie added. “And it turns out Dudley was right.”
“What’s going on?”
“Mo talked to that girl she knows over at Northridge Studios again. She said rumor has it that Harry Oyster is workin’ on a TV show that films outside of Seattle. Not sure ‘bout the name of it, but we thought you might wanna pass the word to Jack and Charlie.”
I was about to tell her that I’d follow up when Natalie went on about her wedding plans. “Hired me a planner—Sasha Scrum. Tex and me are gonna tie the knot at the Valley of the Moon in Malibu in two weeks.”
“Two weeks, what’s the rush?” Something occurred to me. “You’re not preg…”
“Bloody hell no. Believe me, if I was up the duff, I’d just shoot me self and be done with it.”
“I don’t think baby sis is ready to be a baby mama,” Mo agreed.
“It’s Tex’s idea to move fast,” Natalie went on. “He’s got some theory about the alignment of the planets and the stars. That’s why he wants to do the deed in the Valley of the Moon.”
“Never heard of it,” I said.
“They did a mass mooning there at a wedding a few years back. Over a thousand naked cracks at the crack of dawn overlooked the ocean in their outdoor chapel.”
“I’m not mooning for your wedding, if that’s where you’re headed.”
“Not to worry. But I do want you to be me maid of honor. I also need you to put together the bachelorette party.”
“I’d be happy to be the maid of honor, but I’m not sure about the party or exactly when I’ll be home.”
“I wanna be in the wedding.” I head Nana’s voice in the background. She was probably coming downstairs on her stairway scooter. In a moment I saw her standing behind Natalie and Mo with Tex at her side. Her oversized dentures gleamed and she added, “I could be one of the bridesmaids.”
I heard a high-pitched voice in the background and realized it was Prissy. “I want to be in the wedding, too. I have an excellent sense of fashion and style.” Nana’s great-grandson bent over and waved at me. He had on a purple dress.
I was about to respond when Elvis said, “I guess I could sing a couple of tunes. Maybe something from Blue Hawaii.” He bent down so I could see his face but didn’t wave. Nana’s boyfriend had a perpetually mournful grimace, something that made me think about a basset hound with gas.
Nana’s warbled, “He’s so romantic.”
My friends then all began talking at once or should I say arguing about wedding themes, music, and bridesmaids as my phone rang. It was Joe Dawson.
“Meet me downstairs in five minutes. We’ve got a letter and a victim.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
After saying goodbye to my roommates, I found Dawson in the parking lot in his car with the motor running. This time he waited for me.
“The girl’s name is Darcy Tate,” he said, stomping on the gas pedal. “The death symbol was left on her nightstand and she fits the profile. We think she was taken sometime last night. Her parents were away but just got home and reported her missing. We’re headed over there now.”
“And the letter?”
“It went to a small independent paper, The Oklahoma Harold, where it sat on the editor’s desk up until an hour ago. Hass and the professor went to pick it up with a couple of forensic guys. They’re supposed to meet us at the victim’s house.”
I pulled out my phone. “I need to make a quick call.” A moment later I had Jack on the line. I told him what Natalie had said about Ryan Cooper working in Seattle.
“Charlie and me are at the airport now,” Jack said. “We just got the same tip. I’ll let you know what we turn up.” He paused and I heard voices in the background. I thought maybe he was checking in. He spoke to me again after a minute. “How’s your case going?”
“A little too early to know. I’ll call you later and fill you in.”
After I ended the call Dawson said, “Sounds like things are heating up on both cases.”
I met his pale blue eyes. “We got a tip about my father’s killer working in Seattle. We’ll see if it pans out.”
He drove on, breaking every speed limit, and blowing through a couple of lights. When we entered a residential area, he said, “You give any more thought to that tableau theory.”
The road dipped and we bounced. My head hit the car’s interior. “I still think there’s a bigger picture but I’m not sure how it’s going to play out.”
I realized we were coming down the street to the victim’s house. There were police cars parked out front. Dawson pulled to the curb and said, “Maybe we’ll catch a break on both cases, Buttercup.”
I looked over at him. “I hoped we were past that.”
He shrugged. “A guy’s gotta keep his skills up.”
As it turned out, Dawson wasted no time getting his skills back up to speed. Even though the police chief was at the scene, my partner began barking orders to every cop in the area, including Marcel Reed, a detective Dewey Gallagher had selected to replace Ray Barrett. The thirty-something cop was even bigger than Bill Hass, with dark eyes and a serious expression.
“I want everyone out of the victim’s bedroom, NOW,” Dawson said after learning there were uniforms in the girl’s room. “They’re fucking with my crime scene.” He turned to Reed. “Put on your tutu and tap dance in there Marcie, make it happen.”
The big cop chewed on a toothpick, stared Dawson down. He apparently wasn’t someone used to taking orders. “I’m not your fucking water boy. Go do it yourself.”
Dawson came over until he was eyeball to eyeball with the hefty cop. “Listen to me, Marcie. You’re not only my water boy, you’re my gopher, my maid, and my god damned ass wiper if I want one. Go do it, NOW.”
Marcel Reed blinked, looked over at his chief.
“Do it,” Gallagher said. He came over to Dawson after his detective left. “I would appreciate it if you would show my officers more respect.”
“No time for that, Gilligan.” Dawson turned to one of the uniforms. “Where are the parents?”
“In the living room,” the cop said. “They’re pretty tore up.”
I knew that the victim’s parents would be upset and didn’t want my new partner making things any worse for them. On the way into the residence, I suggested to Dawson that he let me take the lead in talking to them. He reluctantly agreed.
We found Gloria and Russell Tate in their family room, the despair and grief etched on their faces. Russell was finishing up what I gathered was the latest in a series of phone calls to friends and relatives, asking if they had seen his daughter. Gloria was on the sofa, sobbing. I went over, made introductions, and took a seat next to her.
“I don’t understand,” Gloria Tate said to me. “I thought that man…the one who takes the girls…I thought he was dead.”
“We’re still trying to determine if there’s someone else involved,” I said, doing my best not to upset her further. “When was the last time you talked to your daughter?”
“Last night,” her husband said. “We were visiting friends in Oakhurst. She called just to check in and say goodnight.”
Gloria added, “Darcy’s very responsible…” She tried to go on but couldn’t, her words dissolved into tears.
Dawson had been pacing as they spoke and came over to me. “We need to get a photo and get in the girl’s room.”
I turned back to the couple. “Do you have a recent photograph of Darcy that we could use?”
Russell went over to a shelf, removed a
school portrait from its frame, and handed it to me.” I saw that Darcy Tate, who Gloria told me was seventeen, was as beautiful as Susan Wellington. As I studied the photograph something stood out. Darcy had a light complexion, dark hair, and wide innocent eyes. They were features that she shared with the other victims, something the profilers had pointed out about the other girls in their reports, but the impact of it now hit me.
I looked up at Gloria who was drying her eyes. “Darcy,” I said. “Did she have a boyfriend?”
She shook her head. “She didn’t even date, really. My daughter wanted to be sure…she was saving herself…” More tears came, this time harder. I reached over and held her hand for a moment.
“There’s some kind of symbol on her nightstand,” Russell Tate said after his wife composed herself again. “I don’t know what it means.” His voice broke with emotion as his wife broke down again. “You think it’s…him, don’t you?”
“Maybe…we’ll know more when I take a look. Is the symbol…is it still in her room?” He nodded, his gaze moving off. “We’ll be back in a moment,” I said before I followed Dawson down the hallway where we found Marcel Reed guarding the door.
We entered the bedroom, Dawson pushing past the big cop who stared at him without saying a word. The room was messy in a way typical of teenagers. Clothes were scattered around and piled in a corner near the closet. Darcy’s dresser had a stack of teen magazines and what looked like a couple of awards for playing soccer. On the nightstand next to her bed we found three items: a cell phone, a Bible, and a single piece of white drawing paper with the Chinese death symbol.
Dawson breathed, kneaded the back of his neck. Referencing the symbol, he said, “Maybe we’ll catch a break and find a print. We also need to check the phone.”
There was a knock on the door. We went over and found Bill Hass and Kent Zender in the hallway.
“We’ve got something different with this one,” the professor said, handing over the letter that was in a plastic evidence envelope. “He’s added a couple of things.”
We took the letter into the office across from Darcy’s bedroom where the light was better and we could talk privately. I read it out loud.