by Tony Healey
“Christ,” Stu says.
Morelli shifts on his feet. “What’d Dudley do then?”
“Didn’t get a chance to do anything,” Albie explains. “Next thing I know, I’m stopping that guy from throwing a punch with Dudley’s name on it. We both got on top of the guy and had to restrain him with the cuffs.”
“Well”—Morelli sucks his gums, peering down at the interview room door as if he can see straight through it—“just make sure Dudley doesn’t do anything stupid.”
“I will, sir,” Albie says, glancing at Stu, then heads back to the interview room.
The captain rubs the bridge of his nose and yawns.
“Coffee?” Stu offers.
Morelli looks at him, eyes heavy, and smiles. “You know why I like you, Raley? You’re a goddamn mind reader.”
3
Chalmer, a small hamlet with a population of 857, lies ten miles southwest of Hope’s Peak. It is a quiet place, as featureless as the endless, flat farmlands around it.
Bobby Cresswell’s sky-blue Lexus has seen better days. It’s got a gray fender, and one of the doors has a scratch from top to bottom, now turned a rusted-brown color. The car is all he needs; it runs okay, has never died on him, and goes fast. Nancy Flynn has a way of sitting in the passenger seat, window down, shades on, letting the air whip her hair back as if she’s a starlet in an old Hollywood picture. Red Hot Chili Peppers thunder from the stereo, and Bobby beats one hand against the top of the steering wheel, singing along.
He slows at the next turn, a dirt road that leads to a house that has also seen better days—paint flaking off the boards, roof looking like it’s about to either cave in or go flying off with the next strong breeze. It stands solitary against the rolling white clouds on the horizon. Bobby turns the stereo down as they approach, the wheels of the Lexus crunching on the hard dirt as he comes to a stop.
“You sure this is the place?” he asks Nancy as they get out.
“That’s what Nana said. Right here.”
The screen door squeaks on its hinges and a black woman appears on the porch, a white dish towel over her shoulder. She looks to be pushing forty. Her short hair is more gray than black, and she has a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth, trailing smoke behind her as she steps out. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Nancy Flynn. This is my fiancé, Bobby Cresswell.”
The woman tips her head. “Good to meet you both.”
Nancy strokes the swell of her stomach. “My nana said I should come out here and see you.”
“Name’s Ida,” the woman says, her gaze moving to Nancy’s bump. “How far along are you?”
“Seven months.”
“Your nana wouldn’t be Katie Flynn, would she?”
Nancy nods. “That’s her.”
“Damn. I knew Katie when I was a little girl,” Ida says, her face suddenly becoming taut. “You’d better come in. I know what you’re here for.”
“Thank you,” Nancy says.
Bobby begins to follow her in. Ida wags a finger at him. “You wait here, mind your car. Make sure it don’t end up with another dent.”
Ida leads the way in. Nancy turns to Bobby and shrugs: What do you want me to do about it?
The house is tidy but old-fashioned. It smells of cigarettes. That, and something sweet. An old TV is on, the volume down low.
“Are you baking?”
“Bread,” Ida says simply. She gestures toward two armchairs. “Sit.”
Nancy does as she’s told. Ida sits opposite, but not before dragging the chair right in close.
“Now, your nana told you what to bring?”
Nancy digs into her bag and produces two twenties and a ten. She hands the bills over. Ida gives them a cursory look and sets them down on the coffee table.
“Let me see your stomach,” Ida tells her.
She lifts her shirt. Ida places both hands on Nancy’s bump, the palms of her hands unexpectedly warm. The woman closes her eyes, as if she’s listening for something only she can hear. The room grows just a bit darker as the picture on the television fades, then comes back. The volume does the same. Nancy does her best to stay perfectly still. Eventually, Ida’s eyes open.
“Boy.”
Nancy can’t help but be shocked. “Like that?”
The woman picks up the bills and fetches an empty jar from the top of a cabinet. She unscrews the lid, deposits the fifty dollars inside, and screws it shut. “If I’m wrong, you come back here in two months and get that fifty back.”
“Okay . . . ,” Nancy says, miffed.
Ida disappears into the kitchen, returning with something oblong, wrapped in red-and-white checked muslin, held together with white string. When she hands it over, Nancy realizes it’s bread, still warm from the oven.
“Is this for me?”
Ida smiles. It looks weird on her face, as if it doesn’t belong there. “No. Your nana.”
The Hope and Ruin Coffee Bar on Turner Street is almost empty, though it’s not unusual to see cops in there so early, going over one case or another. Harper sips her latte and listens to Stu Raley explain his findings.
“Ruby Lane. Same MO as our two girls.”
The photographs attached to the file show her covered in evening frost. In the back of the folder with Harper’s notes is a newspaper clipping:
“SNOW ANGEL” MURDER STILL UNRESOLVED—HOPE’S PEAK PD STUMPED
“It fits the profile like Morelli said?”
Stu nods. “Trauma to the head and face. The position of the body on the ground matches that of Magnolia Remy and Alma Buford. Could be Ruby Lane’s the template for the others.”
“Killing them because they’re similar to her,” Harper says, nodding slowly.
“She was his first kill . . . and she was special.”
“Hmm.” Harper lifts the folder and leafs through the files inside. “Says here she was living in Chalmer, just her and her daughter. No family, other than her mother and father. It’s got interview transcripts with them in here. Her kid must’ve gone to them when Ruby died.”
“Might be worth checking in with them. Track them down, see what they can remember,” Stu suggests. “The records at the station got a bit vague at that part, but I did a printout of what I could find.”
Inside his notebook, he has several pages he hands to her.
Any record from 1995 onward has been computerized—hence the thousands of files stored in the basement. They could be digitized and disposed of, but that would take time and money the department doesn’t have.
Harper reads through what he’s given her. “Says here Ruby’s mother died in ninety-eight, of natural causes. Ruby’s father passed ten years earlier. Suicide.”
She goes back a page and follows the third name associated with Ruby: Ida Lane, born 1976. Harper does the mental arithmetic, making Ida nine years old when Ruby was killed. She works back. Ruby was twenty-four when she died, so she was just fifteen when Ida was born. At first, it’s surprising to Harper that Ruby lived away from her parents, since most teen mothers would prefer to stay close to home. And there is no evidence of the father being involved.
She was just a single mom trying to do the right thing.
Harper flicks through the pages until she reaches the point in Detective Lloyd Claymore’s notes where he mentions Ruby’s daily life. She worked school hours at a dry cleaner’s in Chalmer, renting a one bedroom at the back of a bar.
Working, making sure Ida attended school, doing what she could.
Returning to Ida’s file, she sees there’s not much more. Following the death of her mother, Ida’s residence changed to that of her guardians—her grandparents. From the looks of things, unless the records are severely out of date, Ida lives there still. Harper looks at the name adorning each report.
“Detective Lloyd Claymore?”
Stu consults his notes. “Claymore now resides at Baxter Retirement Home, north of Hope’s Peak. I’ve got the address right here.”<
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Harper gets up, takes her keys and bag. “Let’s go see what he remembers.”
“What about my coffee? I didn’t even touch it!”
Harper holds the door open for him. “Ask ’em for a cup with a lid.”
Driving through Hope’s Peak, Harper calls Albie Goode’s phone.
“Albie.”
“It’s Harper. I’m heading out with Raley, following up on a potential lead. Do you think you could ask around, see what you can turn up about Alma Buford’s friends?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks. Let me know what you find out.”
“Will do,” he says.
Harper hangs up.
Stu offers her a stick of gum. “Here.”
“Thanks,” she says. “Are you saying I’ve got coffee breath?”
“Nope. And anyway, if you do, I do, too.” Stu pockets the gum. They stop at a set of lights. “Hey, uh, I’ll have a talk with Karen. You know, when I’ve got a chance. Convince her she’s wrong about us. She must’ve heard something from someone.”
“How do you mean?” Harper asks.
“Someone’s told her we’re sleeping together, and that it dates back to before we were divorced.”
The lights change. Harper presses the gas pedal and moves with the flow of traffic.
“Who’d do that?” she asks. “We’re on good terms with most of the station.”
Stu shrugs. “Could be anyone. People gossip too much. You know what it’s like in a workplace, how quickly these fucking rumors spread.”
Truth be told, they haven’t had sex for weeks. With both of them coming out of long-term relationships, the last thing they wanted to do was throw themselves at each other. That, and they’d have to stop working together. Likely she’d get stuck with John Dudley as her new partner.
That is not an option.
“I’m not going to think about it right now, Stu,” Harper admits. “There’s just the case. Everything else can wait.”
“I hear you,” he says, knowing all too well why she hasn’t been interested in sleeping with him. Since getting assigned to run the Alma Buford case, Harper cannot switch off, and her romantic entanglements with Stu Raley are at the bottom of her list.
They drive on in silence for a while and Harper wonders if what she really meant was that they could wait.
She suspects that Stu is wondering the same thing.
The desk clerk at the Baxter Retirement Home calls for a nurse to take them through the east wing of the building. They go through one set of security doors, accessed by punching in a code. There is a short hall, with a few doors on either side, then another security door that prevents any further progress.
“What is this place? Fort Knox?” Stu asks.
The nurse chuckles. “Something like that. We have to be careful. The old folks like to go off and wander.”
“Escape you mean,” Stu says.
“We’re extra vigilant today because we lost a resident a few days ago. Most of the staff have gone to the funeral, so we’re running a skeleton crew until they come back.”
“That’s sad,” Harper says. “How old?”
“Eighty-six years old,” the nurse says. “Went in her sleep.”
Stu sighs. “What a way to go . . .”
Harper knows her partner is thinking about those girls, and how they were not afforded the luxury of passing away as they slept.
They’re led to a communal area where a few of the residents are playing checkers. One particularly miserable-looking man sits in an armchair, head resting on his chest, snoring, dribble running from his mouth and down his top.
“Don’t mind Frank,” the nurse says. “That’s how he sleeps. It’s because he takes his teeth out.”
In the corner an old man listens to the radio, head cocked to one side.
“Lloyd—” the nurse starts to say.
The old man waves a hand at him. “Shush for a minute.”
Their chaperone shares a look with them. “Lloyd, you’ve got visitors.”
Lloyd ignores him.
Harper realizes the old man’s listening to the ninth inning of a baseball game. In his hand, he holds a piece of paper, a betting slip.
“You bet the game,” Harper says.
Lloyd looks at her, then returns to the radio. “Figure that out all by yourself?”
“I did, actually.”
Stu raises a hand in the air. “With my help.”
The nurse tells them to take a seat and lowers his voice to a near whisper. “You won’t get much out of him till this game is over. Might as well sit down and get comfortable.”
As it is, the game only goes on for another few minutes, thanks to a lucky catch turned into a double play by a rookie first baseman, and Lloyd is finished with it. He wads the betting slip up into a little ball and chucks it on the floor. Now he looks at the two detectives with a face that belies his frustration.
“Who’re you two?”
“I am Detective Jane Harper. This is my partner, Detective Stu Raley.”
“From Hope’s Peak PD?”
“Yes sir,” Stu says.
Lloyd sits back, hands locked together over his paunch. “Still a shit hole of a place to work?”
“It can be, sometimes,” Harper admits. “But that’s not why we’re here.”
“Well whatever it is, don’t bother asking me for betting tips. Ain’t had a lucky streak for quite some time,” Lloyd tells them.
Harper looks at him. Hair almost gone, and what there is of it is pure white. His hands are smothered in age spots. Lloyd’s face is deeply lined, his jowls sagging with the years, but his eyes are bright.
“We’re not here for tips, Mister Claymore,” Stu says. “We’re here for help.”
“Eh?”
Harper sits forward. “Do you remember Ruby Lane, Detective?”
Recognition flashes. “I do. And it’s not ‘Detective’ anymore. Just Lloyd.”
“Okay, Lloyd. Tell us what you remember about her,” Harper says.
What he has to say is very much in line with what she’s already read from the file, with just a few of the details fudged. Despite that, his memory is remarkably sharp for someone pushing eighty. He recalls names, dates, places. Who said what and where. Harper is impressed.
“You’ve got a good memory,” Stu says.
“Just ’cause I’m in here don’t mean I’m senile, son,” Lloyd says. He taps the left side of his chest. “It’s my ticker’s the problem. Not my head.”
Stu smirks. “Got it.”
“So, her daughter. Ida—”
“Look, if you’re here to talk to me about Ruby Lane, that means one thing. That means you’ve connected some dots. You have a dead girl on your hands. Maybe a few?”
Harper holds up her fingers. “Two.”
“And you’ve noticed a distinct similarity with the murder of Ruby Lane and the two new ones, yes?”
She nods.
“Good. Then it means I can impart something to you both that might be a little . . . sensitive.”
“What do you mean?”
Lloyd sighs. He looks at them both. “I’ve got the cancer. It’s in my bladder; it’s in my spine. I’m pretty sure it’s in my lungs and God knows where else by now. They say I’ve got six months . . . Well, who knows, eh?”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Stu says.
“While I thank you for your sympathy, it’s misplaced, believe me.”
Harper cocks her head to one side. “How so?”
“I’ve kept a secret, Detective Harper. One that has tainted this town long enough. Unfortunately, it’s a secret I cannot carry with me to the grave. Not if he’s killing again.”
“You know who is killing these young women?” Harper asks, sitting forward.
Lloyd shakes his head. “No. But I know there have been others. A great many others, in fact.”
“Tell me,” Harper says, feeling cold, as if from a draft.
Lloyd is hes
itant at first, looking away from them. Harper can see the wheels turning in his old head, deciding whether or not to trust them.
“You can tell me whatever it is you have to tell me,” Harper assures him. “I don’t have ulterior motives. I’m trying to catch a killer.”
Stu clears his throat.
Harper looks back at him. “We,” she says with a shake of her head. “We are trying to catch a killer here. Anything you can tell me will help. Anything at all.”
Lloyd’s tired eyes study her face for a long moment, as if trying to determine the integrity of her character. “I’ve lived in this town my whole life. Do you understand that? Spending so long in one goddamn place?”
“I guess so . . .”
“Hope’s Peak relies on tourist dollars, Detective. The economic fallout if our town no longer had a steady stream of summer vacationers would be devastating. We do well because this is seen to be a respectable place. A little slice of small-town America that people find quaint, charming . . . irresistible, you might say.”
Stu says: “I don’t get where you’re going with this.”
“What I’m trying to say is that sometimes good people do bad things because they think it serves a greater purpose. Such as saving a town from ruin,” Lloyd says. “Not long after the murder of Ruby Lane, there was another. We’d already received a fair amount of media attention. Before I could attend the crime scene I was called to a meeting. Vince Brookstein, my captain at the time, was there, along with the mayor of Hope’s Peak and a number of other people.”
“How come there’s no record of another murder?”
“I was told in no uncertain terms that if I were to report the murders as what they were, my life would be made very difficult. They made the same case to me as I just did to you. That it would cause irreparable damage to Hope’s Peak and the people who live here.”
“Disgraceful,” Harper says.
Lloyd holds his hands up. “I know, okay? But that’s how it was. I concealed evidence so that they could never be connected. I was given strict orders to mislead the public and even some of my colleagues. We made the murders look like accidents, death by misadventure, that kind of thing. You have to understand, these are powerful men, with a lot of similarly powerful men in their pockets. For a long time they have influenced the police, the town council. However, I continued to investigate the deaths on the quiet, in the hope I might find the man responsible but, ultimately, my every effort proved futile. I mean, it’s not like I had the assistance of the department, is it?”