Angel Fire

by Lisa Unger

  “I’m sorry,” Greg said finally, raising his head and wiping the tears from his eyes.

  “Please don’t be. I understand.”

  “You’re the first person to hear me out that hasn’t treated me like a criminal or a fool whose girl ran away from him.”

  “In the days preceding Shawna’s disappearance, did you notice anyone strange hanging around or did she tell you of anyone bothering her?”

  “No, not that I remember. And I think I would remember. I was pretty protective of her.”

  “Just think for a minute. Anything she said, even in passing, someone she found creepy or didn’t like?” She saw something flicker in Greg’s eyes.

  “Well, it’s pretty stupid. I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “What is it?”

  “The day before she disappeared we had a good laugh because Shawna made me promise never to buy a minivan, no matter how many kids we had. She said the past couple of days, she’d seen a green minivan a couple of times. She said, ‘Once you buy a minivan, you can kiss your youth and any hope you ever had of being cool again good-bye.’ But she never said where she’d seen it, or that she felt she was being followed.”

  “Did you see any other cars on the road that night when you went looking for her?”

  “Not one. Do you think someone was following her, Ms. Strong?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Either I or her parents drove her almost everywhere.”

  “But she walked here often? From her house?”

  “Often enough.”

  Lydia pulled a card from her pocket and handed it to Greg. “If you think of anything else that might help, call me day or night.”

  She stopped the tape machine and put it in her bag, rose, and took his outstretched hand. There was a warmth and gentleness to his grip. It was easy to see why Shawna loved him. He was a protector.

  “Do you think she’s dead, Ms. Strong?”

  “I don’t know, Greg. I wish I did.”

  He nodded, closing his eyes. “Thank you, Ms. Strong.”

  He walked her to her car and opened the driver’s seat door for her. “You’ll keep me posted?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  —

  As she did a U-turn and drove up the road away from him, she saw him in the rearview mirror, just standing and watching her drive away. He looked so sad and alone, so powerless, like a child who had lost his grip on a helium balloon and was watching it float into the sky.

  She gripped the wheel so hard her knuckles turned white. She was angry, so fucking angry. She’d never admitted to anyone, not even Jeffrey, how furious she felt after interviewing the grief-stricken loved ones, the other victims of murderers. They had to live with what had been done to the person gone, they had to try to keep from imagining what that kind of pain and fear must be like, to keep from wondering what the last moments were like. When someone you love dies in a car wreck or a plane crash, there is always the possibility they died instantly, that they never knew death had come for them, that one minute they were on their way for milk at the store and the next … nothing. The families of murder victims didn’t have that luxury, that chance for peace. They were haunted always, forever altered.

  Who are you? And what do you want? she thought as she turned onto the main road and gunned the engine.

  They always wanted something; these kinds of killers always had an agenda. The pedophile, the rapist, he was driven by an urge he couldn’t control. Nature or nurture, biochemistry or psychosis, whatever compelled him was as much a part of him as the blood running through his veins. But a serial killer like this always had a reason—vengeance, fame, punishment.

  Jed McIntyre had wanted to destroy lives. The killing of his victims, though he enjoyed it very much, was only a means to achieving an end goal, which was to destroy the life of the child left behind. Just as Jed’s life was destroyed when his father had killed his mother in front of him and was sent to the electric chair.

  Jed was alone with his rage for so many years, so isolated by his circumstances, by the horror he witnessed, by the impenetrable loneliness that surrounded him. He watched people go about their lives, fellow students, then co-workers, knowing that their perception of the world was so vastly different from his, knowing always that his life was forever cast in the shadow of his past. And as he grew older, his fury and his misery grew, too, and twisted like a vine of thorns, choking him and carrying him over the edge of sanity.

  In a way, Lydia had grown to see him as someone fighting isolation, someone trying to create a community for himself, a brethren of misery. He had come to symbolize pure human evil to her. Not Evil in some cosmic sense, not the embodiment of Satan, but evil born of unspeakable psychic pain and cruel injustice, the victim become the victimizer with a vengeance.

  But this killer … what was his agenda? What did these people mean to him? She was driving fast, taking the winding roads too hard as the faces of Shawna, Christine and Harold, and Maria swam in her mind. Usually it was so easy for her to see, like in the case of the Cheerleader Murders. All the girls were similar physically and, they later found out, just wicked, nasty young people. Once she knew what they shared in common, it was easy to deduce what type of person would want them, or want to be rid of them. But with these victims, even though she was sure that the church would be the point at which their lives intersected, she just couldn’t see what characteristic they shared, what attracted the killer to them.

  A deep fatigue was setting in behind her eyes as she relaxed her grip on the wheel. Her hands felt cramped from gripping it so hard. She sighed, rolling her neck from side to side to relieve the tension gathering there. She had never denied being obsessive about her work. But this case was different; it was her heart and not her brain that was driving her. Maybe that’s what Jeffrey was sensing when he said he’d never seen her like this. She’d never felt like this. Rather than trying to solve something that had already happened, she felt inexplicably that she was racing to prevent something. Not only another murder, which was highly possible, but something even more than that. And that if she failed … well, she couldn’t fail. Failure was not an option.

  chapter fifteen

  It was nearly ten o’clock when Lydia’s Kompressor pulled into the dirt parking lot of Smokey’s Sports Bar. The dilapidated building was a caricature of itself, of a dive bar by the side of the deserted road. The gray wood building sagged and was covered with graffiti. A wide variety of pickup trucks, with shotguns mounted on the back windows, sat waiting for their drunk drivers to try to get them home in one piece. God, how grim, Lydia thought as she eyed the flickering neon sign. Most of the letters had gone dark and not been repaired, so the sign just read, “m. .e. .s … S.”

  “Mess is right,” muttered Lydia as she sat mustering the strength to enter. She was stepping out of the car when her cell phone chirped.

  “What’s up?” she answered, sinking back into the leather interior.

  “I was just wondering where you were.”

  She smiled to hear Jeffrey’s voice, hoping that he wasn’t angry with her anymore. She knew she could be a bitch and she was eternally grateful that he always forgave her.

  “I’m at Smokey’s Sports Bar. I thought I’d have a few drinks and see if I couldn’t get any action.”

  “Sounds like it’s right up your alley. You still mad at me?”

  “No. Are you still mad at me?”

  “You know I can never stay angry at you. Besides, you were right.”

  There was a moment of silence before he said, “Her heart is missing, Lyd. Removed with surgical precision.”

  “Like Lucky.”

  “Yeah, except everything else is still intact … more or less.”

  “Did you come up with anything out there?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Yeah, I think so. I talked to Greg. Turns out Shawna was involved with the Church of the Holy Name. He also said that she had seen a gree
n minivan a couple of times in the days before she disappeared.” She could hear him flipping through the pages of a file.

  “He never said anything about that before.”

  “No, he said it was just something she mentioned when they were kidding around. It’s probably nothing but if we came up with a green minivan entering the park, we might have a lead. Any luck with the security guard?”

  “The good news is there’s a log, the bad news is that security guards seem to have really bad handwriting, and that a hundred and twenty-three vehicles have entered that park in the last twenty-four hours. We sent detectives over to the airport rental car offices to get a list of their customers since the afternoon before Lopez was murdered, just to cover all our bases. We also got the airport to release their security tapes.”

  “You don’t think it’s someone local?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, just covering the bases. Tomorrow we’ll have someone start punching license plate numbers into the DMV database, do some cross referencing with VICAP. If a green minivan pops up, we might get lucky.”

  “We should get a list of parishioners and volunteers at the church, too.”

  “Good idea. You almost done out there?”

  “I’m just about to go into this bar and talk to Mike Urquia.”

  “They talked to him for over four hours today.”

  “Well, they talked to Greg, too, and they didn’t get the information I got. Is the autopsy done?”

  “Almost done. Morrow and I are waiting to meet with the ME. He told us already that he thinks she’s been dead for more than fifteen hours, out there for ten.”

  “The killer didn’t do a very good job of hiding her. Do you think he wanted us to find her?”

  “He didn’t stage the scene, there were no anonymous tips to lead police to the body. He didn’t leave any messages or clues. He just dumped her. Maybe he just didn’t care. Maybe he’s that sure of himself.”

  “Did anything else turn up at the scene?”

  “Well, the body bag, which was the best hope for prints, was totally clean. We are working to match the semen and pubic hair to Mike Urquia. All physical evidence indicates that the intercourse was consensual, and Urquia admitted to sleeping with her. We also scraped under her nails and hope there’s DNA evidence, but that will only help to eliminate or confirm a suspect. And obviously results will take a while to come back.”

  “So, nothing?”

  “We’re waiting for toxicology to come back—things are slow as shit in these backwater jurisdictions,” he said.

  “All right, well, I’ll meet you back at the house.”

  “I have an ugly feeling about this, Lydia. Watch yourself.”

  She laughed at his paternal concern. “I thought you didn’t believe in feelings.”

  He didn’t answer her.

  “If you don’t think I can handle a few rednecks then you don’t know me very well,” she said, trying and failing to lighten the mood.

  “That’s not what I mean,” he answered quietly.

  “No. I know. Don’t worry. I’ll see you later.”

  The bar was dark and Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” blared from the jukebox in the corner behind the pool table. A few warped cues hung on the paneled wall next to a plastic Marlboro clock. It was like a million other dives in small towns across the country. Dirty and full of smoke, inhabited by overweight, flannel- and denim-clad men who looked like they knew no more familiar sight than their own reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

  She perched herself on a stool near the window and waited for the bartender to notice her, which she thought wouldn’t be long since all eyes had been on her from the moment she walked through the door. The bartender, a small woman with teased blond hair and an excess of blue eyeshadow, walked toward Lydia, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She wore tight, tapered acid-wash jeans, and a cut-up white sweatshirt over a black tank top, Flashdance-style. The eighties had been an ugly decade.

  “What can I get for you, honey?”

  “Guinness on tap?” Lydia asked hopefully.

  “ ’Fraid not. Coors or Bud on tap. Or Pabst in a can.”

  Of course. “Coors, then. Thanks.”

  When the bartender returned with her beer, Lydia asked, “Do you know where I can find Mike Urquia?”

  “I haven’t seen him tonight.” She glanced at the clock behind her. “He’s usually here by now.”

  “Do you know where he works or where I can find him?”

  “Are you with the police or something?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what do you want with him?”

  Lydia worked hard to conceal her rising annoyance with the woman and put on her best charming smile. “It’s rather personal, but if you must know, I think he may be the father of my child.”

  Lydia suppressed a belly laugh at the woman’s shocked expression. She was glad Jeffrey wasn’t here to see this; he always hated it when she fucked with innocent people. She could imagine him getting up and walking away so the girl couldn’t see his face.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I don’t know anything about him.”

  “He’s here every night but you don’t know anything about him?”

  “Look, I just serve beer to the customers. I don’t get involved in their personal lives. Are you sure you’re not with the police? You’re not from around here.”

  “No, I’m not. Look, let me give you my number …” Before she could finish, she noticed the woman was looking past her to a man walking in the door.

  “Hey, Mike,” called one of the barflies.

  Lydia turned around to see a tall, dark-haired man with a mustache amble through the door. He was entirely clad in denim, with a sizable belly straining against the mother-of-pearl buttons on his shirt. Cowboy boots added about two inches to his already large frame. She didn’t get a good look at his eyes as he walked past her. He gave his hand in greeting to the man who had called his name.

  “Hey, Rusty. How you doin’?” he asked amiably.

  Rusty raised his glass. “Can’t complain, can’t complain.”

  “There’s your man, honey,” the bartender sang. Lydia ached to smack her, for no good reason, imagining that many people shared her feelings.

  Mike had seated himself, back to the wall at a small table near the jukebox. Lydia walked over and sat down across from him like she’d known him all her life. He looked sullen, tired. But he perked up considerably when Lydia joined him.

  “Are you Mike Urquia?” she asked, in a tone she knew would immediately dash whatever hopes he had—official, cold.

  “I am.”

  “I’m Lydia Strong. I have some questions about Maria Lopez. Do you have a few minutes to talk to me?”

  He looked over at the other people at the bar and then leaned in close to her. “Look, lady, I don’t want any more shit from you people. I had nothing to do with her death. Sure I fucked her and I was there the night they say she was killed, but I didn’t do it. If you want to ask me any more questions, you’re going to have to arrest me.”

  “Mr. Urquia, I know you didn’t do it but I want to find out who did. As far as I understand, you were the only person close to Maria and you were the last person to see her alive. I want to find out about her, about who she was.”

  “Close to her? Lady,” he said, and chuckled, “I wasn’t that close to her. To these people, ‘close’ means I fucked her more than once—twice in my case. Look, I got a wife and two kids living about twenty miles from here. I come here to blow off some steam. When she came on to me, I took her home. Some of the guys around here said she gave good head, sometimes you had to pay her a little something. She was attractive enough—what can I say? But I don’t know a thing about her. I’m sorry if something bad happened to her, but I didn’t even know her last name until the police came and questioned me.”

  She looked at him and felt a little nauseated by him, by people’s ability to use one another so cheaply.
“Did you talk at all? Did she say one word about herself to you? Anything about someone who had been bothering her, following her?”

  He looked like he wanted to say yes, to get the heat off of himself for a moment. “No, we really didn’t have … you know,” he paused, searching for the right words, “any conversations.”

  “So, basically, what you’re telling me is that you took her home because you heard she gave good head, threw her down, fucked her, and then left. And the only time she opened her mouth was to put your dick in it?”

  He leaned back in his chair, put his thumbs through his belt loops. “Basically, yes,” he said without a trace of shame, a wide grin across his face.

  Sadly, Lydia could see that he was telling the truth. “One more question. Did you see any vehicles on the street when you left Maria Lopez’s apartment that night?”

  “The cops asked me that question.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “It was dark.”

  “Think for a second, Mr. Urquia. Did you see any vehicles?” Lydia was careful. There was a fine line between leading someone to tell you what you want to hear and jogging their memory.

  “There were some cars parked but I didn’t notice what make and model.”

  “Cars only? Could there have been anything larger—say, an SUV or a van?”

  “Actually, I think there was a van,” he said, casting his eyes down and to the right. “I couldn’t say a color exactly because it was dark but maybe blue, or black. It wasn’t a van, though. It was one of those minivans.”

  “When you exited the apartment, was the car to the left or to the right of the front door?”

  “To the right.”

  She pulled her card from the inside pocket of her coat and slipped it across the table. “Please hold on to this, Mr. Urquia. If you think of anything else that might be helpful, don’t hesitate to give me a call.”