Circumstances wouldn't allow it. Doubtful, they ever would. It was his and Marlin's tacit agreement that if Jarek was guilty, he couldn't have acted alone. This precluded any feeling of retribution for the victim.
His mood didn't improve by the time he crossed from the Outhouse to the courthouse across the street. Apart from wanting to get it over with, David wasn't in a rush to interview Kimmie Sue Beauford. What put his molars on edge was the certainty that a hog in ice skates picks up speed before it hits bottom.
He shouldn't have been surprised when he opened the door to his office and found Kimmie Sue lounging in his desk chair, painting her toenails. Opposite her, Deputy Bill Eustace was flipping through a copy of Field & Stream.
The desk had been cleared to make room for a pedicure kit, a box of assorted doughnuts, paper napkins and lidded, take-out coffee cups. The radio on the bookcase was thumping a rap song. The air reeked of polish remover and perfume.
Kimmie Sue and Eustace glanced up and smiled, as if they were happy to see him. David was nearly blinded by the scarlet mist descending like a veil.
A hand circled his wrist. Claudina Burkholtz tugged David back out the door and closed it behind him. "I tried to catch you before you went in there."
David couldn't recall the last time he was so angry he couldn't speak. This one, he'd never forget. What the fuck are they doing in my office? must have read loud and clear in his eyes.
"Breathe," Claudina ordered, turning his back to the outer office. "And keep looking at me. Everybody's watching to see what you'll do. Lose your cool, and it'll be all over town before lunchtime."
She was right. David knew it, as surely as he knew how lucky he was to have her for a friend and ally. The less rational, forever-fourteen side of him just wanted to haul off and hit something.
"This isn't the end of the world," Claudina said. "It's not insubordination, either, much as a by-the-book hunk like you believes it is."
David was miles from a smile, but managed an inquiring "Hunk?"
Claudina's laugh was a tad shrill, but a pretty good impersonation of the real thing. Genuine enough, that he could feel waves of relief diffuse behind him. She winked at him and drawled, "You're not bad lookin' for a country boy. Especially when you're mad."
"Mad, hell. I"
"Listen to me. What Bill Eustace did was wrong, but Bill wasn't alone in being wrong. Inside that bullhead of yours, you're asking yourself if you'd have done the same thing."
She held up her hand. "Okay, maybe you're too cussed fond of black-and-white to see gray, but there's right, and then there's righteous."
Tapping David's upper arm, as though they'd agreed the Cardinals had a shot at the pennant this year, Claudina stepped from in front of the door and walked away.
David took in and let out another of those breaths she'd prescribed, before he turned the doorknob for the second time. The hen-party atmosphere was mostly gone. The breakfast picnic and claptrap were stowed in a grocery sack. His desk appeared much as he'd left it earlier that morning, and Kimmie Sue had moved to the chair beside Eustace.
Perfume and acetone still pervaded the air. Nobody spoke as David walked over and adjusted the radio dial to KSAN. The Dixie Chicks' "Not Ready to Make Nice" wailed from the speaker. David wasn't, either, but Claudina's lecture had struck a nerve. He might not make her proud, but damned if he'd disappoint her.
"Ms. Beauford," he said, "if you'll excuse us a moment, there's a chair just outside the door."
She chuffed, her arms falling into her lap, as though incredulous he'd suggest such a thing. "But, David, I've been"
Bill jerked his head at the door. "Go on, hon. We won't be long."
Kimmie Sue flounced out, her platform sandals spanking the linoleum floor. She'd either rolled out of bed in full makeup, a miniskirt and a top, or the officers let her bring her luggage along with her.
Bill rose from his chair. His expression was paternal or patronizing, depending on your point of view. "I already know what you're going to say, Sheriff. Kimmie Sue was supposed to dally in the processing room until you got around to talking to her."
David sucked in another breath. If this kept up, he'd hyperventilate before he asked Kimmie Sue a single question. "That wasn't a suggestion, Eustace. That was an order."
The deputy chuckled and shook his head. "Look, I don't know how these things are done down Tulsa-way, but here, we show the sheriff's daughter the kind of respect"
"Respect? Strange you should mention that, seeing as how I'm the sheriff, and I don't have a daughter."
"Aw, c'mon. You know what I meant."
"Yep. I do." David yanked open a desk drawer. He shuffled a stack of Beauford crime-scene photos. "Putting me in my place, your affection for Kimmie Sue, her father, the chief-deputy appointment that Knox has hinted at " He slapped a photo on the desk. "They're all more important to you than she is."
"That's not " Bill's voice trailed off. His gaze riveted on Bev's lifeless body, he shifted his weight, as though his discomfort were physical. He looked up, but not at David. "Iuh, I dunno what to say."
David returned the picture to the stack and dropped it in the drawer. "No need to say anything. Just tell Ms. Beauford to come in, then get back out on the road."
"Yes, sir." Pausing in the doorway, Bill turned and said, "It won't happen again, Sheriff."
David slammed the drawer shut with his knee. Yeah, it would, he thought. Eustace wasn't the only one in the department with divided loyalties. Being stuck between Larry Beauford's cronyism and Jessup Knox's empty promises was a lousy place for a sitting sheriff to be.
* * *
"Les Williams." The Sanity police lieutenant shook Hannah's hand and motioned at a chair. He was about her age, married, and did a fair job of hiding his dislike for drop-in visitors. "What can I do for you, Ms. Garvey?"
"A favor, I hope." Her smile was business-friendly, assuring him that idle chitchat wasn't her forte, either. "I'm looking for information on the disappearance of Royal Moody. The desk sergeant said you were the man to see about a cold case."
"Is this a matter of personal interest?"
Hannah nodded. So far, so true, even though murder had never been among the causes she'd manufactured to explain her own father's total absence. The very idea that Caroline Garvey could have poisoned John Doe and buried him in a trailer-park lot was laughable, as well as depressing.
For one, the Garvey clan was Effindale's version of the Beverly Hillbillies, except they couldn't have struck oil in a petroleum refinery. And, if Caroline had killed her anonymous lover, Hannah's grandmother would have ratted on her in an Illinois second. Faster, if a reward was offered. For fifty bucks, May-belline Garvey would have sworn her daughter conspired with Lee Harvey Oswald, kidnapped Jimmy Hoffa and broke up the Beatles.
Hannah would never know who John Doe was, or why he abandoned her. In a way, homicide would have been easier to accept. She'd have had someone to blame, other than herself, as children invariably do. She could also stop hoping, ridiculous as it was, that someday he might appear, saying how sorry he was and what a fool he'd been.
From her purse, Hannah took a photocopy of the first newspaper story regarding Royal Moody's unknown whereabouts. Passing it to Lieutenant Williams, she said, "I have copies of other articles if you'd like to see them."
Williams signaled for a moment to skim the page. "The guy never turned up again, huh?"
"If anyone's heard from Mr. Moody in the past twenty-three years, I'm not aware of it."
Williams swiveled toward his computer. Over rapid, two-finger key taps, he said, "The Cold Case Unit was just created a couple of years ago." He glanced sideward. "And I'm it."
He leaned nearer the screen, then pushed back in his chair and strode to a bank of file cabinets. "Unsolved homicides are the priority since there's no statute of limitations."
Riffling through a file drawer, he added, "DNA evidence and forensic technology may put away some bad guys who thought the
y were in the clear."
And gals, Hannah thought, but allowed that guys was pretty much a gender-neutral term. Which brought to mind two gender-specific guys, otherwise known as Sam Spade Bisbee and his trusty sidekick, Mr. Potato Head.
She frowned, realizing everyone had received assignments at last night's meeting, but couldn't remember what Delbert and Leo's were.
"I found Moody's file," Williams said, curtailing what might have escalated to a panic attack. "But there isn't much in it. Just the original missing person's report and a memo noting the case was transferred to the sheriff's department."
Peachy. There went Hannah's assurance to David that Code Name: Epsilon was a Sanity PD case. "Why would it be transferred to the county?"
The lieutenant shrugged. "Looks like it was at their requestwhose, isn't specified. If I had to guess, I'd say a deputy, or somebody working at the courthouse was a relative or close friend of the Moody family."
He laid the file on the desk and sat down. "Don't quote me, but it's also possible that someone here shoved it off on the county mounties. Hard to speculate on what might have happened twenty-three years ago."
"Where Royal Moody's concerned, it's even harder to find out anything concrete." Hannah lifted her chin in an obvious attempt to read the typewritten report upside-down. "All I have is a batch of old newspaper clippings."
To her surprise, Williams chuckled. "No offense, but my eight-year-old daughter's a lot smoother at laying on a hint."
"Oh, I can be smoother if it'll help."
He rolled his eyes. "You want a copy of the report? I'll make one, but there's really not much to go on in it, either. Mr. Moody's wife initiated the report. She said her husband had set out for KentuckyNashville or Knoxville, she wasn't sure. Moody didn't call home much from the road, and she couldn't supply the names of the motels he frequented."
"Doesn't that seem odd to you?" Hannah asked. "Sure, long-distance calls cost more then than they do now, but as I understand it, Moody was gone two or three weeks at a time."
"He took the sales job after he was discharged from the navy," Williams countered. "Ships can be out to sea for months. Just more of the same for her, maybe."
"Okay, but no idea where he stayed, either? What if she had to reach him in an emergency?" Hannah raised her hand in surrender. "Sorry. Curiosity gets the best of me sometimes."
"Understandable. And I will admit, if I'd been the responding officer, I'd have made a bigger pest of myself." The lieutenant stood, report in hand, evidently preparing to make the copy he'd promised. "This personal interest you have. Are you a family member?"
She'd been prepared for the question at the beginning. Lying would have been easy when Lieutenant Williams was just a nameplate outside his office door. But if she didn't fudge the truth now, he might retract his offer to copy the report.
"Well," she hedged, "I'm not a blood relative."
His hesitation was germinating her imaginary, marital branch of the Moody family tree, when he said, "Even so, I probably shouldn't say this, but there is some truth in all those jokes about sailors and traveling salesmen."
Yes, and Hannah had a feeling that Rudy Moody had heard every one of them, a thousand times over.
11
"Why are you being so hateful, David?"
"I'm not, Ms. Beauford. All I'm"
"Would it kill you to call me Kimmie Sue? Or Kim? We've known each other for years and I practically grew up in this office."
David pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stanch the pain receptors in his forehead. He'd seen the woman three times in his entire lifepresent ordeal included. Everything she said, her tone of voice, the tears she turned on and off like a spigot were as fake as her eyelashes.
A glossy platinum fingernail tapped the desktop. "See that little red heart with my initials in it? I drew that with a marker for my daddy after he was elected sheriff the first time."
"Will you knock it off?" David flinched, as though he'd shouted it but couldn't stop himself. "You're not sweet sixteen, haven't been for damn near two decades, and if you don't cut the teenybopper wannabe crap now, I'll lock you in a cell, until you do, Ms. Beauford."
Lord Almighty. If he didn't know better, he'd think Marlin Andrik had wired his mouth for sound. David glanced at the video and audio recorders set up in his office. The deputy monitoring them flashed him a grin and a thumbs-up.
David expected a gush of tears or a demand for a phone to call her attorney. Kimmie Sue bolted upright in the chair, pulled down that place mat of a skirt and clasped her hands on top of it. "I'm sorry, Sheriff. Really, I am. I guess I was retreating from all the stress and didn't realize it."
Her about-face transcended spooky. On videotape, that chameleon routine might lay the groundwork for an insanity plea. David warned himself to be careful. His presumed receptiveness to her might be a web she'd woven for him.
"Back to this surprise visit to your mother," he began. "How long did you and Mr. Jarek plan to stay in town?"
"Long enough to talk her into selling the house before it falls apart. Dad was the king of putting off until tomorrow what needed to be fixed years ago."
"You and Bev discussed the house sale previously?"
"I mentioned it after Dad's funeral." She smiled. "You knew Mom. Decisions weren't her thing. Especially when money was involved. The trick was leading her in the right direction but letting her think she was in charge."
David's expression was impassive, his mind tracking the consistent past-tense references to her mother. Years removed from his grandparents' death, his parents were still known to say, "Oh, Mother loves that hymn," or "Grampa Hendrickson has a coat just like that."
He said, "I presume you wanted Bev to sell the house and move to California with you."
"What?" Kimmie Sue laughed. "Oh, God, no. You obviously have no idea how much it costs to live in L.A." She gestured dismissively. "That house was too big for them when they bought it, but Mom just had to have it. With Dad gone, all she needed was a one-bedroom apartment."
"A cozy little place," David said, "where she wouldn't have to worry about maintenance and upkeep."
"Exactly."
"And could give you the proceeds from selling the house."
"Not give it to me." Kimmie Sue's tone inferred that David was as obtuse about high finance as her mother. "A loan." She hiked a shoulder. "An investment, actually. Like a backer invests in a film production, or a play on Broadway."
Or, David thought, a gambler stakes his life savings on a sure thing at Churchill Downs.
Kimmie Sue held her forefinger and thumb a fraction apart. "My agent says I'm this close to a casting call for the second lead in the new Richard Gere movie they're shooting next spring. It's mine. I can feel it. But I've got to have new head shots, audition tapes, clothes, vocal training " She touched the back of her hand to her brow. "After this nightmare, I'll need a month at a spa to get my cortisol levels back to normal."
At his inquiring look, she explained that cortisol is a stress hormone, then began itemizing its hideous, fat-boosting side effects. "You can starve yourself and still"
"Let's back up to your homecoming," David said. "When did you and Jarek get into town?"
Either the change in subject or its abruptness annoyed her. "Why do you keep asking what you already know?" Her sandal tapped the floor. "Yesterday afternoon."
"What time?"
"Two-ish. Maybe a little later. The old hag at that filthy motel can give you the exact time."
"What if I told you a witness puts Jarek's vehicle in your mother's driveway Wednesday afternoon."
"You'd be lying. Or your 'witness' is."
In the manner of one poor lie being a feint before the knock-out punch, he said, "What if I told you we have proof that Jarek was at your mother's house prior to yesterday afternoon."
"Same answer. You're lying."
David placed Jarek's fingerprint-ident card and a crime-scene photo side by side on the d
esk. He pointed at the card's right index finger, then the close-up shot of the latent lifted from Bev's rearview mirror. "People lie, Ms. Beauford. Fingerprints don't."
When she leaned forward, her nostrils flared as she looked from one to the other. "That's impossible. Rocco's never been to Mom's house. I swear, he hasn't."
"Then how'd his print get"
"It's a trick." Her hands balled into fists. "You, or that detective, planted it to incriminate him." Her eyes narrowed. "Dad talked about it all the time. How if you know what you're doing, you can frame somebody by transferring his fingerprint to evidence from a crime scene."
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