She pictured herself sneaking up on them. Tried to move quietly, but it was impossible given the leaf litter underfoot and the whiplashing limbs.
They would hear an intruder, but would they care? They might not be afraid of strangers. Mellow on pot, Cary and Jessica might not see the danger until it was too late. Would he lure them up to the other cabin farther away from the road?
Or did he arrange to meet them here?
She leaned in through the cabin door and inhaled the smell of pot, which to her smelled like a cross between a burnt-out campfire and old grass and gym socks in a school locker.
The lab techs had removed the pillow, the boom box, the rolling papers, the rug, soil, and debris samples—everything—as possible evidence. They’d also vacuumed the cabin for fibers and hairs, to see if they could place Cary or Jessica or both of them here.
If he did encounter them here, how did he overpower them? Two young, strong kids—that would be hard to do.
She retraced her steps back to the road, looking for any sign where the killer might have come in, and nearly walked right over a couple of divots in the sand north of where she thought he would have gone in.
She squatted on her heels and examined the shallow impressions. They could be drag marks—the divots could be a sign of heels digging in. She followed the trajectory of the marks down into the trees, feeling more excited the more she saw. The leaves on the ground were scuffed, a broken line running in roughly an east-west direction. Not, she noticed, in the direction of the hang-out. Plenty of broken limbs and branches—the kid had been dragged by a whirlwind. And swipes and spatters and smears of blood.
Eventually the scuffmarks led to where she thought they would: the cabin on the hill.
She was now sure he did not meet Cary and Jessica at the first cabin.
Laura absorbed the warm stillness of the canyon, thinking. Cary had been dragged down from the road. That meant he had met the killer up there, or at least gone to his car. But where was Jessica during all this?
A raven flew over and settled in a tree farther up the hill, chortling at her.
She returned to the 4Runner for latex gloves and evidence envelopes and retraced the killer’s steps up the hill. She was nearly to the cabin on the hill when she spotted something red on the ground—a rectangular plastic tab. She recognized it as one of those savings cards people used at grocery stores—a Safeway Club Card. It fit on a key ring; the hole punch looked as if it had given out from use.
These cards had a bar code and a number, one reason Laura had never signed up for one despite the savings. She didn’t like the idea that her purchases could be tracked by someone she didn’t know.
She bagged the card. At the edge of the road where Cary had been dragged into the woods, she took several soil samples and marked them as evidence.
Some of the soil looked dark, almost black. It could have been oil spots from a car.
Or it could have been blood.
Back at the Bisbee Police Department, Laura photocopied both sides of the Safeway Club Card, then looked up Safeway in the phone book. There was one in Bisbee. She took the photocopy and drove out to the strip mall where the Safeway was located.
She asked to speak to the manager. A sallow young man with a few thin hairs on his upper lip came to meet her and they walked back to a dingy, fluorescent-lit office at the back of the store. She guessed he was a manager, not the manager.
“Is it possible to get a name and address from this card?” she asked, handing him the photocopy.
The young man, whose nametag said “Gerald,” looked dubious. “I don’t know … that information is confidential.”
Sure it was. Laura knew these cards were used to track shoppers’ purchases, and that they shared this information with other companies.
Laura had to be careful here. She wanted Gerald to give her the cardholder’s name without tipping him off that it involved a homicide. She didn’t want it getting out what kind of evidence had been left at the scene—information like that would make a defense attorney’s day. She cleared her throat.
“I could really use your help. The person who dropped this is an important witness to a serious crime—“
The boy leaned forward. “What kind of crime?”
“A missing person’s case.” Technically, that was true.
“Do you think it’s connected with those murders?”
“This concerns someone we just need to talk to. You’d really be helping me out.”
She could see the wheels going around in his head. “I think it’s against regulations, you know, unless you had a search warrant or something like that.” He drummed a pencil on the desk blotter and looked tortured. “Are you sure it doesn’t have anything to do with that girl getting killed?”
“We haven’t ruled that out—tangentially.”
“I thought so.” Pleased with himself. “So you really need to talk to whoever owns this card because he might have witnessed the killing?”
“Gerald, I can’t really say.”
“Damn, that’s scary. Two people getting killed like that. I saw it on the news.” His eyes turned regretful. “I wish I could help …”
Laura glanced at her watch. “Damn.”
“Ma’am?”
“I’m just thinking, I’ve never run into this kind of situation before. I can get a warrant, no problem—I just hope nobody gets hurt because we took the extra time to hammer this out.” She shook her head. “I just can’t believe this is happening.” She stood up. “I hope I can find a judge at this time of day. If this turns bad, I sure don’t want this on my conscience.”
Gerald squirmed in his chair. “Maybe I should look it up, just in case. I can’t remember if there’s a hard and fast rule.”
“That would be a big help.”
Five minutes later, she emerged from the Safeway into the parking lot with the name and address. She didn’t need the address, though. She already knew where Charles Edward Lehman lived.
17
Victor Celaya showed up at the Jonquil hours after their dinner at the Copper Queen Hotel. He leaned against the doorjamb, gamma-rayed by the fluorescent light above the door to her room, waggling a six-pack of Bohemia.
Well, almost a six-pack. One was missing.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure. Just let me wake up.”
“You were in bed already? I’m sorry.” He walked past her and put the six-pack on the table.
“Want one?”
She glanced dubiously at the sixpack.
“They’re cold. Just got it from Circle K. I’m sorry I woke you up, but I had to tell you my idea.”
Laura sat on the bed, trying to focus. She’d just made it into deep sleep when he pulled her out of it. “What idea is that?”
“Kind of stuffy in here. You want to go outside?”
“Sure.” Why not? She wasn’t going to go back to sleep now.
Laura went into the bathroom and changed out of the long shirt she wore to bed. Back into today’s clothes, wrinkled as they were. She could hear Victor whistling a familiar-sounding corrida, pure and sweet. Wondered what his idea was and why it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
Whatever he’d come up with, he was excited about it.
They crossed a bridge over the narrow channel that ran through Tombstone Canyon and sat down at one of the outdoor tables. Laura was almost glad he’d awakened her; it was a beautiful night. Cool compared to Tucson. The sky full of stars. Runoff from the rains tumbled through the canal, catching the glow of the streetlights.
He quickly spoiled the mood. “I thought of a way to get in Lehman’s house. We go through his probation officer.”
“We could do that,” she said slowly. As a probationer, Chuck Lehman did not have the rights regular citizens had. Probation was a substitute for prison, and there were a number of restrictions on him—what he could do and not do, who he could associate with. If his probation officer suspected he was violating his proba
tion, his house could be searched. Usually it required concurrence by the chief of probation, but essentially, Lehman’s house could be searched without a warrant.
Laura didn’t like this for a couple of reasons. One, Chuck Lehman’s link to the crime scene was tenuous. He lived right near the vacant land. He had a dog and probably walked around in there often. The key tab could have come off any time. She’d bagged it because she was thorough, because if their investigation pointed to Lehman, she’d have other evidence to back it up.
And two, going through the probation officer could cause problems down the line. She could just hear the defense attorney: overeager cops, abusing the privilege—using a probation officer to gain access to a house when they couldn’t get a search warrant through regular channels.
That could cause problems if this ever went to trial.
Frank Entwistle had always taught her to think of police work as a pool game, always setting up the next shot and the shot after that. Thinking about the end game—the trial. The ultimate shot should land the bad guy in prison.
This strategy made her a lousy pool player, but a good investigator.
Victor was talking, excited about the case for the first time. She knew he had a pool game of his own in mind: Getting home to his wife and family.
This was not the first time Victor had cut corners. He saw everything in terms of exit strategy—close the case, boost the solve rate.
Laura said, “We can’t do that, Victor. We don’t have enough evidence.”
“That’s the beauty of it. We’ll get the evidence, once we’re inside.”
“You really think he’s the one?”
“Don’t you?” Suddenly his mouth flat-lined. “Shit! You don’t. You don’t think it’s him, do you? You’re still fooling around with that motor home idea. Nothing can be easy for you, can it?” He stood up and walked around in a circle. “I knew you were gonna do this.”
“Victor—“
“What, afraid you’ll lose your membership in the ACLU?”
She tried not to lose her cool. “It just won’t work.”
“Of course it’ll work. You just don’t want it to.”
Suddenly, it dawned on her. “Did Buddy Holland have anything to do with this?”
“Oh, that’s great. You never give me any credit, do you? What, I can’t think for myself?” He set the bottle down on the table so hard that beer sloshed up—a sharp yeasty smell.
“Victor, I don’t want to say this, but—“
“Then don’t.”
“It’s my case. Like it or not, I’m the lead. I say we’re not going to do this.”
He smiled at her sadly. “Too late.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a done deal. We’re meeting Sylvia Clegg over at Lehman’s tomorrow.”
It shocked her so much, for a minute she couldn’t speak.
He stood up. “Sorry you’re not happy about this. I came here as a courtesy. We’re meeting the probation officer over at Lehman’s at eight a.m. See you then—if you want to be there.”
18
Driving up West Boulevard the next morning, Laura resolved to do the best she could to hold her case together.
She knew when she was beat. The probation office had agreed to this search, and if she objected now, it would only send a signal that the right hand didn’t know what the left hand was doing. That in turn would be communicated to other jurisdictions on many levels and would affect her ability to get things done.
Perception was reality.
Victor and Buddy had made an end-run around her. She had to salvage what was left of her case and go on.
When she reached Lehman’s house, the first thing she saw was a new black Suburban parked two houses down. The vanity plate said RICOPRZ. She knew it: The Suburban had been seized from a Mexican-American drug lord under the RICO laws. It was driven by Lieutenant Mike Galaz.
What was he doing here?
Laura remembered a difference of opinion she’d had with Victor about the new lieutenant. Victor insisted that Galaz was a control freak. But as far as she could tell, Galaz seemed detached from the job, letting the sergeants run the day-to-day—which suited her fine.
She suspected that Victor resented Galaz for other reasons, more ephemeral stuff, like his expensive home in the foothills; his constant talk about his golf game; his breedy-looking second wife, a high-powered Anglo lawyer.
Laura glanced at Galaz. The fact that he was here really didn’t surprise her. An important case like this, it wasn’t unprecedented that the lieutenant would want a piece of the pie—especially since this one was already unofficially running for mayor of Tucson.
The Suburban, a Bisbee PD patrol car, and Buddy Holland’s Caprice were all parked on the street half a block from Lehman’s house. A small group had collected near Victor Celaya’s shiny black truck. Laura recognized everyone except a skinny bleached-blonde in Guess Jeans that molded tightly to her ass, and an older Hispanic male: Sylvia Clegg and the chief of probation, Ernie Lopez.
Victor leaned against the front fender of his new GMC, the window open so he could get his last few minutes of Rush Limbaugh. A Mexican ditto-head—who’d’ve thunk.
Galaz nodded to her, his brown eyes assessing. She wondered why he was so interested, put it down to the fact that he hardly knew her. He explained that later today he was speaking at a law enforcement seminar in Sierra Vista, and he decided to come by and see how “his people” were doing.
Those inscrutable eyes, weighing her. Laura turned to Ernie Lopez.
“Is he home?”
“His car’s there.”
They headed up the street, the Bisbee PD officer, Chambers, leading the way. Galaz hung back—not sure of his role? He’d come up through the administration side of DPS, with a long stint in Internal Affairs. Not a cop’s cop.
Laura glanced back, uncomfortable that her lieutenant was walking behind her. When he saw her looking back he transferred his gaze from Clegg to her and flashed a smile. Galaz was one of those people dirt didn’t stick to. Manicured nails, expensive suit, immaculate white cuffs crisped to a razor edge, micro-managed haircut. With his patrician good looks and Spanish elegance, even at eight a.m. he looked ready for a thousand-dollar-a-plate fundraiser—a world Laura knew existed, but would never in her life see firsthand.
She could smell the products that went into him: shampoo, cologne, mouthwash, body wash, hair spray. His expensive shoes clicked on the sidewalk behind her like a metronome.
Officer Chambers rapped on the door.
Laura was aware that Lieutenant Galaz remained near the curb. Was he worried there might be shooting? Laura’s own hand hovered near her weapon—automatic.
Lehman came to the screen. Shirtless again.
He took one look at them and said, “Oh shit.”
Sylvia Clegg said, “Chuck, I’m informing you that I am here to do a search.”
Lehman glared past her at Laura. “This is your doing. You trying to get back at me?”
Unperturbed, Sylvia said, “Chuck, you know that under the terms of your probation, you have to allow me in to search.”
For a moment it looked like there would be a stand-off. Chambers shifted his weight slightly, his hand near his gun.
Lehman stood in the doorway, arms folded, looking like an angry Mr. Clean.
“What did I do?” he demanded. It took Laura back to the other day when he’d yelled at her like a drill sergeant. “What did I do?”
A powerful engine started up on the street. Laura looked back to see Mike Galaz pull out and drive away. Why had he bothered to come at all?
Clegg said quietly, “Chuck. May I proceed with the search?”
“And if I don’t, you’ll arrest me.”
“Come on, Chuck, this isn’t such a big deal,” Clegg said. “Take a deep breath and—“
“You’re gonna arrest me, am I right?”
“No one’s going to arrest you. If you just let me take a
look around, we’ll be in and out in no time. You know I wouldn’t—“
He shoved the screen door open so hard it slammed against the wall of the house. “Go ahead. I have nothing to hide.”
“First you need to secure your dog,” Clegg said.
“Oh for Christ’s sake!” He whistled for the dog and took him outside, returning a few moments later. “I put him in his run, that good enough?”
Clegg smiled like she’d won the lottery. “That’s great, Chuck.”
They traipsed in: Laura, Victor, Buddy Holland, and Sylvia Clegg. The rest remained out on the street.
Buddy Holland cruised the room, eagle eyes taking in everything. Laura was worried that he was going to piss Sylvia Clegg off, but it appeared they were friends. Buddy must not have seen anything incriminating, because he joined them and stood there with a bored look on his face.
Chuck Lehman lived well. Blond hardwood floors, oriental carpet, Danish furniture. Doggie bed in the corner, near a river stone fireplace. Colorful kites hanging from the walls.
Sylvia Clegg, gloved in latex, started a low-key but thorough search. Her movements were deliberate and efficient. Laura noticed she had a calming effect about her, which was well-appreciated.
Victor said to Lehman, “Mr. Lehman, we’d like to ask you a few questions.” He glanced in the direction of the sunny kitchen. “Why don’t we go in and sit down, while your probation officer looks around.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No sir.”
“Then I’m not answering any questions.”
Victor smiled. “We’d appreciate it if you would. We just want to clear up a couple things.”
“I can’t believe this! I’m calling my lawyer.”
“You’re not under arrest. We’re only asking for a little cooperation.”
“You can fuck that.” Lehman picked up his cell phone from the kitchen table and turned away from them.
It was a short conversation. When he was through, he closed the phone with a snap and slapped it on the table. “Lawyer’s on his way.”
“Can we at least sit down?” Victor asked him.
Laura Cardinal - 01 - Darkness on the Edge of Town lc-1 Page 9