Freezing jas-1 Page 13

  And then he was walking away from her, moving on, pushing through, going forward.

  DAYS FIVE AND SIX

  Saturday and Sunday

  FOURTEEN

  Scott caught the mayonnaise just in time as it squirted out the bottom of the sandwich. He looked to see how his partner was doing. Eric had the Suburban’s steering wheel in one hand and his sandwich in the other. On his first bite, barbeque sauce dripped out in a fat droplet. Part landed on his pant leg and part on the fabric seat, but, to his credit, the vehicle’s speed remained steady as it hurtled east along Interstate 10 towards Arizona.

  ‘Shit,’ Eric mumbled while he chewed, then noticed Scott. ‘What’s so funny? Turner’s not going to be laughing when you bring his vehicle back looking like a minivan after a trip to Disneyland.’

  ‘I got the impression from Turner that he couldn’t care less if we brought it back at all, so long as we secured a suspect.’

  He leaned across and balanced a paper napkin on Eric’s thigh. ‘I’m not wiping it up, even if you ask me nice.’ But he forgot to keep an eye on his own food and mayo got on his shirt. ‘Dammit.’

  Eric looked pleased. ‘Did Turner get a call from Franks?’

  ‘He didn’t say as much.’

  ‘But he was concerned we were on a wild-goose chase?’

  Scott nodded as he chewed.

  ‘Did he actually use those words?’

  ‘No, but you know Craig Turner. He can be a diplomat. A nice quality in a boss.’

  ‘For a change. Man, when I think about how Franks held us back on this case in Atlanta! Who knows how many leads we missed.’

  ‘It’s not like we stopped following leads.’

  ‘Yeah, but we didn’t have the resources to do proper surveillance to generate the high quality leads. You know we were slowed down by only getting the leads the streetwalkers could remember to give us. We had a short list of suspects—’

  ‘Hey, you don’t have to remind me.’

  ‘And thanks to SSA Franks, we couldn’t do what was needed to rule ’em in or out. And now we’re tracking the same perp out here. He’s probably killed again, too.’

  Scott balled up his napkin, put it in a paper bag, then balled that up and threw it in the footwell. ‘We don’t know that it’s the same guy. Our perp’s stomping grounds are in Atlanta. Right now, we’re in . . .’ He looked out the window just as they passed the sign for the Arizona State Line. ‘We’re fifteen miles west of Quartzsite. What’s our perp doing in Arizona?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Eric admitted. ‘But it’s the same guy. Maybe he wanted to take a road trip. He took the northern route, killed Patterson in Oregon on the way down south, got rear-ended in LA—’

  ‘The van was going north when it was hit, Eric.’

  ‘So he was lost. He gets back on the road and goes to Arizona to get some sun. Or, wait . . . he could be from Arizona originally and it was time to come home. Things getting too hot in Georgia the past few months. I mean, you were on the news and in the paper, what, every couple of weeks for a while? Appealing to the public, “We’re looking for a van that might be driven by a man abducting women in Atlanta.” I’d get out of town if I had you on my tail.’ Eric put the last of the sandwich in his mouth and held out the trash to Scott. ‘You still think it’s the same guy, right?’

  ‘Yeah. But I’ll tell you what I didn’t tell Turner. I think it’s the same guy because I want it to be him. It’s not based solely on the evidence because the evidence isn’t strong enough to say it is our guy. It’s just a perp with a Georgia license plate hauling female body parts around.’

  ‘What did you tell Turner?’

  ‘I just told him there was no need to hand off to Phoenix, wasting time bringing them up to speed. At the very least, we’ll get forensics that relate to the LA body parts and we’ll get the van’s owner, who’s either the perp or someone who’s helping him. We can tie up the LA end of the case no matter what.’

  ‘And Turner doesn’t care about what happened with us in Georgia?’

  ‘I barely mentioned Georgia. I mean, if Franks has called him from Atlanta, then Turner already knows that when it comes to that case, I’m . . . what did Angie say Franks called me?’

  ‘An ego-driven maverick who can’t see the forest for the trees.’

  ‘Right.’ Scott looked at the instrument panel. ‘Watch your speed, Ramos.’

  Eric immediately glanced at the speedometer and eased up on the accelerator pedal. ‘It’s thinking about Franks that does that to me.’

  ‘Remember, he’s our old boss.’ Scott reclined his seat and closed his eyes.

  ‘Not if he’s calling Turner with bedtime stories,’ Eric replied, an edge to his voice.

  ‘Turner’s too smart for that kind of game. And if you’re going to be thinking about Franks while I’m getting some shut-eye, put it on cruise control.’

  Eric focused on the road. It was still another couple of hours to Mesa, so he turned the radio on with the volume low. He’d just missed the news.

  An hour later, Scott woke suddenly and then oriented himself. He brought his seatback up and cleared his throat. ‘How far out are we?’

  ‘Thirty miles.’

  ‘You need to switch?’

  ‘No, I’ll take us to the location and get in some rest when we change vehicles.’

  Scott drank from a bottle of water, then pulled a file folder from the seat behind them. ‘You get a chance to look at this stuff from Phoenix PD before we left?’

  Eric shook his head. ‘Not in any detail. The D who I spoke with, Czuzak, is up to her neck on a drug bust so she sent a couple of rookies to babysit the van.’

  ‘She sure the van’s associated with that address?’ Scott was pulling papers out of the file and putting them in some kind of order.

  ‘Well, it’s parked in front of that address. The rookies have seen one man emerge from the van and go into that address but not by the front door. He went down the side. Could be a side entrance, could be nothing. Could be a shortcut to a neighbor’s.’

  ‘Right. Says here that the house at that address is owned by a couple in their seventies by the name of Spicer. Been there since ’ninety-nine. Previous address is Burbank, California. No arrests, no convictions. No problems with property taxes or mortgage payments. No van registered in their name or associated with the house.’ Scott paused.

  ‘They could know the perp. Let him park at their place.’

  ‘I see you’re presuming Mr Spicer isn’t our perp.’

  Eric gave him a look. ‘He’s too old for the description we have. Plus, how many seventy-year-old active serial killers you heard of? What about the people who live on either side of that address?’

  ‘Uh, let’s see.’ Scott flipped through some pages until he found the right one. ‘To the west we have a Mr Knox, the owner since ’ninety-eight, unknown to police but resident with him is one Alice Elizabeth Smith whose priors include possession, dealing, and acquiring goods through deception.’

  Eric raised his eyebrows. ‘Possession of what?’

  ‘Ah . . . pot. Same for the dealing.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘She could be someone who crossed paths with the perp.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘And on the other side?’

  ‘Neighbors on the other side are tenants.’ Scott yawned. ‘Phoenix hasn’t run down the info on them yet but the owner lives outside the US and that’s confirmed. Let’s give the rookies a punch list of backgrounds we need when we get to the station.’

  ‘Make sure they know it’s a punch list and not a wish list. It’s Saturday night, so a list isn’t going to make them happy.’

  Scott yawned again. ‘They’ve been on stakeout. What makes you think they won’t be happy?’ He twisted to look at the back seat. ‘We got anything else to eat in here?’

  Steelie watched Marie snip the thin branches of the mint bush and held the willow baske
t out for her. Then she hurried to keep up as Marie moved on to a rose bush whose flowers grew in bunches, some buds yet to open, others just past their glory.

  ‘I think we’ll have some of these, too.’ Marie started cutting off little bouquets.

  ‘You’re putting roses in the mint tea?’

  ‘No, dear, these are for the table.’ Then she peered at Steelie over the top of her vintage sunglasses. ‘You’re teasing me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Hey, I found rosemary in my scone this morning so I had to check.’

  ‘I would have thought that you experimented with all kinds of herbs and spices, Steelie.’

  ‘Why, ’cause I’m a vegetarian? As someone pointed out, we don’t just go and eat a fistful of the nearest bush. Like you don’t pick up the nearest squirrel and throw it on the grill just ’cause you eat meat.’

  Marie threw her head back and laughed throatily. ‘It is always such a treat to have you around, my dear. Come on, we’ve got enough of everything now.’

  They walked up the sloping lawn of creeping thyme to the Cape Cod-style house shaded by two ancient oaks. The white siding contrasted with a particular shade of blue on the window shutters to give the effect of country retreat rather than beach house. The rear porch was screened in and the wooden door slammed gently behind Steelie as she followed in Marie’s perfume contrail. The lunch table was set with tulips but Marie picked the vase up as she swept into the house.

  They passed through the dining room, its long table flanked by ten chairs, and into the bright white kitchen with its woodblock counters and island.

  ‘Right, give me the mint and I’ll leave you the roses. Here’s a vase.’ She handed Steelie a pot-bellied ceramic jug and the pruning scissors and pointed her over to a section of counter by a small sink. She hummed as she pulled iced tea from the refrigerator and prepared to submerge the mint in it.

  After a few minutes, Steelie turned around with the jug. ‘How’s that?’

  Marie looked at the rose arrangement, head tilted. ‘There’s hope for you yet.’

  Steelie hoisted herself on the counter to watch Marie make salad dressing. Her gaze traveled over the room and came to rest, as usual, on the large framed watercolor that dominated the far wall, a bookcase on either side, each jammed with cookbooks sprouting bits of note paper, their colourful spines a contrast to the ephemeral quality of the watercolor. It was a portrait of Marie and Jayne when she was four years old, painted by her father, Elliott.

  ‘Tell me about the painting again.’

  Marie looked up. ‘Again? But you know the story.’

  ‘Again!’

  She shrugged elegantly. ‘We were in our back garden in Caracas. Nothing like this.’ She glanced out the kitchen windows. ‘Much smaller but wonderful soil. I was planting seeds I’d been experimenting with. Jayne had watched me harvest them and then decided to help me plant. I taught her how to hold the trowel and she was very good. No seeds too deep, nothing tamped down too hard.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘The plants began to grow. Everything was fine. Then one day, I went to check on their progress and discovered that she had excavated their roots. Not dug them up; no, no. She just wanted to see what was going on underground so she had simply exposed them, poor things. It was quite clinical. They never recovered.’

  Steelie smiled. ‘Just think, you were the one who taught her to use a trowel. Little did you know.’

  ‘That’s what Elliott says.’ Marie turned back to the salad and began tossing in the dressing. ‘Little did we know our girl was going to grow up to be a forensic anthropologist. We’d never heard of such a thing.’

  Steelie jumped down and came over to rescue a piece of cucumber that had fallen from the salad bowl on to the counter. She popped it into her mouth and crunched. ‘How is Mr Hall? It’s been, what, a couple of months since he was here last?’

  ‘Oh, he’s fast approaching emeritus level and there’s only so long the university will allow an old painter to hang on. So he’s asking himself if he can stop being an expatriate and come back to the States. It’s difficult, as being an expatriate rather suits Elliott. Has done since nineteen sixty-seven.’

  ‘You wouldn’t go back to Venezuela?’

  ‘My home is here. I am a true emigrante.’ She handed the salad bowl to Steelie and directed her toward the front porch. ‘Besides, how would the listeners of Weekends with Prentis manage without me?’

  ‘As your lawyer,’ Steelie called back, ‘I’d have to advise you to take the title with you at the very least.’

  Marie joined her on the porch and put the roses on the table. ‘Now, do you think Jayne will be here soon or shall we begin without her?’

  Steelie glanced at her watch. ‘I’m actually surprised she’s not back yet. Did you see her this morning?’

  ‘No, but she’d left a note in the kitchen that she was going to Carol’s.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Steelie pulled out her cell phone and dialled Jayne’s number. ‘Either her phone’s off or she’s out of range.’ She started to dial Carol’s home number and said to Marie, ‘Let’s go ahead; I’m sure she’ll be here soon.’

  Jayne walked out to the back porch to find Steelie and Marie at the table with the remains of lunch. Half the quiche was just crumbs and the salad looked picked over. She sat down at the place setting that had been left for her and reached for the salad.

  ‘How’d she take it?’ Steelie’s tone was eager.

  ‘You know Carol – with equanimity. I tell her my apartment’s been bugged and we need her to call some TSCMs—’

  ‘TSCMs?’ Marie cut in.

  Jayne spoke while examining the salad. ‘Technical Surveillance Counter-Measures. I can tell Steelie’s been here because there’s no avocado left and yet I can see smears of avocado stuck in the crenulations of the lettuce.’

  ‘They do say it’s trace evidence that gets you every time.’ Steelie didn’t sound remorseful.

  Marie ignored their asides. ‘Couldn’t you have just called Carol?’

  Steelie answered because Jayne had too much salad in her mouth. ‘Well, Eric said that it wasn’t always recommended to do what they did at Jayne’s apartment last night; I mean, to dismantle the bug. In a business setting, it’s sometimes recommended to leave it in, plant disinformation in it, and then see where that comes out to find the source of the spying. So in case this is all to do with the Agency and not just someone spying on Jayne, we’re not using any phones to discuss this or make the appointments with the TSCMs. If there are wiretaps at the office, we don’t want whoever planted them to take them away before a professional finds them.’

  ‘It all sounds rather sinister. I can see why you converged on me for the weekend.’ She stood. ‘And you’re welcome to stay for longer.’ She went inside.

  Jayne looked after her, then cut a generous slice of quiche for herself. She regarded Steelie. ‘You’re having fun, aren’t you?’

  Steelie threw her arms wide. ‘Why wouldn’t I? Great company, a comfy room, delicious food. My mom’s idea of lunch is tuna and potato chips on white. Followed by Jell-O on a bed of Cool Whip. And if you ask her what flavour the Jell-O is—’

  ‘I know; red.’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, that’s not a flavor!’

  ‘She’s just speaking a different language.’

  ‘How come I never hear you say that about your mom when she’s talking to you about, oh, your choice in clothing?’

  ‘That’s not just another language. It’s another planet.’

  ‘She loves you.’

  ‘You know she wishes I was a bit more . . . vah-voom.’

  ‘You’re wrong about that.’

  Jayne polished off the last of her quiche and looked at Steelie. ‘This is why I don’t like leaving you two alone together. What part of my life was discussed?’

  Marie arrived holding a tray with a cake on a stand and a coffee pot. ‘Your childhood, darling. And I don’t need to seek permission to do that seeing as I was there for it, too.’


  She began cutting the cake, which was iced white with a coating of coconut shavings. She put a slice in front of Jayne.

  ‘What’s that?’ Jayne was poking at a dark line between the two layers of yellow sponge. ‘Looks like blood.’

  ‘Raspberry jam, as you well know.’

  Steelie sniffed her own slice appreciatively.

  ‘Now, this particular cake,’ Marie said, ‘is ideal for a garden party. Say, when you want to introduce a special someone to your parents.’

  ‘But you already know Steelie.’ Jayne almost kept a straight face.

  ‘Layered, this cake could even work for a garden wedding,’ Marie continued.

  ‘Good God,’ Jayne muttered.

  Steelie chimed in, ‘You’ll have to ask Scott if he minds your maid of honor wearing pants on the big day.’

  Jayne glared at her. ‘Traitor.’

  By Sunday morning, Scott and Eric had traded the Suburban for a surveillance vehicle. Scott turned on to Prickly Pear Close and saw the gold van parked three-quarters of the way down on the right. The street itself barely lived up to its name. A single prickly pear did exist against all odds at the corner where the street came off the main road in a T-junction but the cactus did more to catch tumbleweed than it did to establish the suburban vista envisioned by fast-talking developers in the 1980s.

  Most of the houses on the street had given up all pretense of a garden, even a desert garden, as front yards had been turned into off-street parking for extended family who had moved in during economic hard times. Five of the thirteen houses on the dead-end street had some sort of camper parked in their driveways, chocked up on bricks, curtains closed against the heat. People were living in them full-time. So Scott and Eric knew it wouldn’t surprise anyone to see one more RV arrive on the street, nor would it be unusual if its sunshades permanently obscured all of its windows from the searing Arizona sun.

  From the outside, the surveillance vehicle looked like a motor home on its last legs, its many badges from past trips appearing to do as much to hold the fiberglass skin together as the rivets themselves. The badges also suggested that the owners were happy albeit tired seniors, many of whose road trips belonged to another millennium: ‘W.B. Caravan Club–Wichita Meet 1991’; ‘We Bridged the Great Divide–1994’. It was plausible that the owners were ‘snowbirds’ – Northerners or Easterners who used to travel annually to southern Arizona for its warm winters but this year never left, their camper coming to rest in this dry subdivision while looking for a final parking place.