by Sandra Brown
Curtis accepted the condition but didn’t look happy about it.
Dean’s opinion of Mrs. Armstrong went up another notch. She was no pushover. This toughness probably hadn’t been in her nature before the difficulties brought on by her husband’s addiction. She’d had to acquire it in order to hold on to her sanity and survive.
Curtis waited as she got out of the chair and walked her out of the cubicle. “Thank you for obliging us, Mrs. Armstrong. I hope your husband is located soon and that he gets the help he needs.”
“He could not be the man you’re looking for.”
“Probably not. Besides, we’re not sure that Janey Kemp has met with foul play. But, as you’ve no doubt learned, all prior offenders come under suspicion any time a sex offense is alleged. Your husband picked a bad time to miss an appointment with his probation officer, that’s all.”
That wasn’t all, and she was smart enough to realize it. But she was also too polite to call Curtis a liar to his face. Instead, she told them good-bye.
“Nice lady,” Curtis remarked once she was out of earshot.
“Intelligent, too.” Curtis looked at Dean for elaboration. “Her husband is on a downward spiral, and she knows it. She also recognized your bullshit for what it was. In spite of what you told her, you obviously think there could be a connection between Armstrong’s disappearance and Janey’s.”
“Can’t rule it out.” Curtis eased himself into his desk chair and indicated the other one to Dean. He took a Baby Ruth from a glass canister on his desk and offered one to Dean.
“No thanks.”
As he unwrapped the candy bar, Curtis said, “Armstrong’s own wife saw him solicit a minor for sex. He went to that remote place on the lake for that specific purpose. And how did he know to go there? Only one way.”
“The Sex Club,” Dean said.
“Exactly. He probably uses the message board like a menu. Whets his appetite by reading what’s posted there, then goes out looking for the girl who posted it. And the girl Toni Armstrong saw him with matches Janey Kemp’s general description.”
“Very general,” Dean said. “She described half the high school girls in and around Austin.”
“All the same, it’s a coincidence that cuts very close. You agree?”
Dean raked back his hair. “Yeah, yeah, I agree.”
He had felt empathy for Toni Armstrong. He identified with hoping to God you were right to believe in the innocence of a loved one in whom you had little trust.
“If she doesn’t volunteer his computer soon, I’m going to request a court order,” Curtis told him. “Rondeau may be able to track Armstrong through Janey’s email address book, but it’ll take longer. In the meantime, I’ve put everyone on alert that I want to talk to Dr. Armstrong as soon as he surfaces. We’ve already put out an APB on his car.”
“Speaking of which, any lab results back from Janey’s car?”
Curtis grimaced. “Evidence overkill. They collected trace evidence of every fiber, either natural or manufactured, known to man. Carpet, clothing, paper. Every frigging thing. It’ll take weeks to sort it all out.”
“Fingerprints other than Janey’s?”
“Only several dozen. They’re searching for matches. Maybe we’ll get lucky and one of them will be Brad Armstrong’s. They also collected traces of soil, food, plants, and controlled substances. You name it, we found it, and we can readily identify it. But if we’d collected evidence from a KOA campground, it couldn’t be more scattershot.
“The girl practically lived in her car. According to her friends, even her own parents, she entertained in it extensively. She ate, drank, slept, and screwed in it. The only thing we’ve matched with certainty is a human hair, and it matches one we took from her hairbrush in her bathroom at home. Oh, and a speck of dried fecal matter. Identified as canine, which makes sense because we also collected several dog hairs that match those of the family pet.”
“I don’t remember seeing or hearing a dog.”
“Stays in the laundry room. The judge is allergic.” Curtis finished his candy bar, wadded up the wrapper, and tossed it into the trash can. “That’s it so far.”
“Nothing was found that sheds light on what happened to her,” Dean remarked.
“No sign of a struggle, like ripped clothing or scuff marks on the interior surfaces. Only one hair, not like a clump that had been pulled out. No broken fingernails that would indicate resistance. No blood. The gas tank was half full, so she hadn’t run out. No malfunction of the motor. Sufficient air in all the tires. It appears she left the car under her own power and locked it behind her.”
“Intending to come back,” Dean added thoughtfully. “What about other tire tracks in the area?”
“You know how many people have signed on to the Sex Club website at one time or another? Several hundred. I think every last one of them was congregated there that night. Say two or three rode together, you’ve still got a hundred vehicles. We’ve made a few imprints and are running down the makes and models, but it’s going to take days, if not weeks, which we don’t have.
“And matching DNA samples, even once we’ve isolated them, takes time. A lot of time. It sure as hell can’t happen in”—he consulted his wall clock—“less than thirty-six hours.”
“What about the photograph she gave Gavin? Any leads from that?”
“Taken with a film camera, not digital. The film wasn’t developed at your corner one-hour photo.”
“Our guy has his own darkroom?”
“Or uses someone else’s. I’ve got several people working that angle, trying to track down suppliers of photographic paper and chemicals, but again—”
“Time.”
“Right. And our amateur shutterbug may not buy his products over the counter. He could get them by mail order or buy them online.” His thinning crew cut certainly didn’t need smoothing, but he ran his hand over it as though it did. “Something else to toss into the gumbo, remember Marvin the janitor?”
“What about him?”
“Aka Morris Green, Marty Benton, and Mark Wright. Along with Marvin Patterson, those are the aliases we know of.”
“What’s his story?”
“Real name Lancy Ray Fisher. In and out of JV court numerous times on petty charges. At age eighteen he did time in Huntsville for grand-theft auto. Got the sentence reduced by ratting out a cell mate who had boasted to Lancy Ray about a murder. But once free, assorted felonies followed, for which he served minimum sentences, usually by plea bargaining. Best known for bad checks and credit card theft.”
“Where is he?”
“Don’t know. We’re still looking and so is his parole officer. He dove underground when we called ahead. Griggs and Carson got an ass chewing for that. Anyhow, Marvin’s avoidance of us leads me to believe that violating parole isn’t his only crime and that cleaning the toilets at the radio station isn’t his sole source of income.”
“Or that he’s got something worse to hide,” Dean said.
“We got a warrant and searched his place. No computer.”
“He could’ve taken it with him.”
“Could’ve, but he left behind other goodies.”
“Like?”
Curtis ran down a list of electronics that would be hard to come by on an average janitor’s salary. “Mostly sound equipment. Fancy stuff. We also carried out boxes of crap we’re still sorting through. But here’s where it gets really interesting. One of those felonies I mentioned? Sexual assault. His DNA is on record.”
“If you could match him to trace evidence found in Janey’s car—”
“If I had the time to match it, you mean.”
Dean shared the detective’s frustration. It was an upside-down case. They had good leads, but no crime and no victim. They were looking for an abductor without knowing for certain that Janey Kemp had been abducted. They were working under the assumption that she was being held against her will, that her life was in peril, but for all they kne
w—
A fresh thought struck Dean. “What if . . .”
Curtis looked at him, prompting him to continue. “Say it. I’m open to any ideas at this point.”
“Is it possible that Janey herself is behind this?”
“For attention?”
“Or fun. Could she have put a male friend up to calling Paris just for kicks, just to see how far it would go and what would happen?”
“It’s not that far-fetched an idea. But it’s not original either. I went over to the courthouse this morning to talk to the judge and—”
“He’s carrying on business as usual?”
“Right down to the black robe,” Curtis said with dislike. “He clings to the notion that Janey is doing this to spite him and his wife. Come the election in November, the judge doesn’t need any adverse publicity. Clean family image and all that. He thinks Janey is trying to scotch his chances to keep his seat on the bench.”
“Damn.”
“What?”
“I’m thinking like Judge Kemp now?”
Curtis chuckled. “And you could both be right.”
They mulled it over for several seconds before Dean said, “I don’t think so, Curtis. Valentino convinced me. Either Janey’s anonymous prankster friend knows enough psychology to pass for the real thing, or he is.”
“I have to think he is.”
“Janey kept an appointment with this guy. They met in a designated place. She secured her car and rode away with him.”
“It would appear,” Curtis said.
“Which is consistent with Gavin’s story.”
The detective stared thoughtfully at the toe of his polished boot. “Gavin could’ve taken her somewhere in his car so they’d have privacy to thrash things out.”
“And instead, Gavin thrashed her? Is that what you’re thinking?”
Curtis looked up and shrugged as though to say, Maybe.
“After talking briefly to Janey, Gavin joined his friends. He gave you a list of names and numbers. Have you checked with them?”
“Working on it.”
The detective’s noncommittal answer irritated Dean even more. “Do you think he could disguise his voice enough to sound like Valentino? Don’t you think I’d be able to identify my own son’s voice?”
“Would you want to identify it?”
Dean could withstand criticism. Sometimes his analysis of a suspect, a potential witness, or a cop in trouble wasn’t received well and made him unpopular with fellow officers. It was an accepted hazard of his job.
But this was the first time his integrity had come into question. Ever. And it made him madder than hell. “Are you accusing me of obstructing justice? You think I’m withholding evidence? Do you want a strand of Gavin’s hair?”
“I may later.”
“Any time. Let me know.”
“I meant no offense. The thing is, you hold back a lot, Doctor.”
“For instance?”
“You and Paris Gibson. There’s more there than you let on.”
“Because it’s none of your goddamn business.”
“The hell it’s not,” Curtis said, his ire rising to match Dean’s. “This whole thing started with her.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice so that anyone beyond the cubicle couldn’t overhear. “You two were a dynamic duo during a standoff situation down in Houston. Made all the papers, TV news.”
“People died.”
“Yeah, I heard that. Tore you up pretty bad. You took some time off to get your head on straight.”
Dean fumed in silence.
“Not long after that, Paris’s fiancé, your best friend—something else you failed to mention—becomes incapacitated. She quits TV news and devotes herself to taking care of him, and you—”
“I know the history. Where’d you get your information?”
“I have friends in the HPD. I asked,” he replied without apology.
“Why?”
“Because it occurred to me that maybe this Valentino business stems from all that.”
“It doesn’t.”
“You’re sure? Valentino’s hang-up seems to be unfaithful women. Do you think an attractive and vital woman like Paris remained faithful to Jack Donner for the whole seven years she cared for him?”
“I don’t know. I lost contact with her and Jack after they left Houston.”
“Entirely?”
“She wanted it that way.”
“I don’t get it. You were going to be best man at their wedding.”
“Your Houston source was very thorough.”
“He didn’t tell me anything that wasn’t in print. Why did Paris ask you to stay away?”
“She didn’t ask, she insisted. She was abiding by what she thought Jack would want. We’d been athletes together in college. Buddies, and all the physical rowdiness that implies. He wouldn’t have wanted me to see him so debilitated.”
Curtis nodded as though it was a valid answer, but maybe not a complete one. “And something else that strikes me as curious,” he said. “The sunglasses.”
“Her eyes are sensitive to light.”
“But she wears them in darkness, too. She had them on last night when you arrived at the Wal-Mart store. It was the middle of the night and there wasn’t even a full moon.” Curtis fixed an incisive look on him. “It’s almost like she’s ashamed of something, isn’t it?”
chapter 21
Stan would rather have had an appointment with a proctologist than with his uncle Wilkins. Either way, he was going to get his ass reamed, but at least a proctologist would wear gloves and try to be gentle.
Their meeting place, the lobby bar of the Driskill Hotel, was in Stan’s favor. Since Wilkins planned to fly back to Atlanta that evening, he hadn’t booked a suite. Thank God, thought Stan as he entered the downtown landmark. It was unlikely that his uncle would flay and fillet him in a public arena. Wilkins hated scenes.
The hotel lobby was as tranquil as a harem during afternoon-nap time. The stained-glass ceiling provided subdued illumination. One tended to walk as quietly as possible across the marble mosaic floors. Nor did one wish to disturb a single glossy frond as one passed a potted palm. Sofas and chairs invited one to languish on the deep cushions and enjoy the flute solo filtering through invisible speakers.
But at the center of this oasis of cool serenity squatted a poisonous toad.
Wilkins Crenshaw was well under six feet tall, and Stan suspected he wore elevator lifts in his shoes. His gray hair had a yellowish tint and was so sparse that it barely concealed the age spots on his waxy scalp. His nose was overly wide, which matched fleshy lips, the lower one curling downward. He bore a resemblance to an amphibian of the ugliest genus.
Stan figured his uncle’s appearance was the main reason he had stayed a bachelor. The only appeal Wilkins might hold for the opposite sex would be his money, which was the second reason he was still single. He was too stingy to share even a small slice of his financial pie with a spouse.
Stan also guessed that his uncle had been a nerdy outcast in the military academy to which he and his father had been sent by his grandfather. From there the brothers had been given no option other than attending the Citadel. Upon graduation each had served a stint in the air force. Then, having earned the appropriate degrees and done their patriotic duty, they had been allowed to join the family business.
At some point during these passages into manhood, the nerdy Wilkins had turned mean. He had learned to fight back, but his weapon of choice was brainpower, not brawn. He didn’t use his fists, but he had a remarkable talent for instilling fear. He fought dirty and took no prisoners.
He didn’t stand when Stan joined him at the small round cocktail table. He didn’t even greet him. When the pretty young waitress approached, he said to her, “Bring him a club soda.”
Stan despised club soda, but he didn’t change the order. He would do his best to make this meeting as painless as possible. Smiling pleasantly, he began with flattery.
“You’re looking well, Uncle.”
“Is that a silk shirt?”
“Uh, yes.”
It was a family trait to dress well. As though to compensate for his physical shortcomings, Wilkins was always immaculately garbed and groomed. His shirts and suits were tailor-made, mercilessly starched and steamed. A wrinkle or loose thread didn’t stand a chance.
“Do you go out of your way to dress like a queer? Or do you just come by that faggoty look naturally?”
Stan said nothing, only nodded his thanks to the waitress when she delivered his club soda.
“You must’ve inherited that flamboyant style of dress from your mother. She liked ruffles and such. The more the better.”
Stan didn’t dispute him, even though his shirt wasn’t in the least flamboyant, not in style or color. And he seriously doubted his mother had ever worn a ruffle in her life. She’d never looked anything except perfectly correct. She’d had excellent taste and in his opinion remained the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
But arguing any of this would be pointless, so he changed the subject. “Did your meeting with the GM go well?”
“The place is still making money.”
Then why, Stan wondered, was he scowling? “The latest ratings were very strong,” he remarked. “Up several points over the previous period.”
He’d done his homework so he could impress his uncle with this quote. He only hoped Wilkins didn’t quiz him by asking the dates of the last ratings period or to explain what a point was.
His uncle gave a noncommittal grunt. “That’s why this business with Paris Gibson is so upsetting.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We can’t have our radio station involved.”
“It’s not exactly involved, Uncle. Only peripherally.”
“Even to a minor extent, I don’t want us connected to something as unsavory as a teenage girl’s disappearance.”
“Absolutely not, sir.”
“That’s why I’m going to tear your fucking head off and piss down the hole if you had anything at all to do with making those phone calls.”
Uncle Wilkins had learned something besides meanness from his days in the military. He’d learned to express himself in language that could not be misinterpreted. The crudeness of his statement was topped only by its effectiveness.