Laura Lippman - The Last Place

“Palm oil,” she said.

“Bad stuff,” Carl said. “Do they have anything with canola oil?”

“I mean”- her mind was playing a word association game, one that seemed improbable and stupid-“palm oil. Palmer.”

“You think-?” His eyes widened.

“Try Alan Palmer,” Tess told the manager.

“Is that another character?”

“Just do it.”

“Okay. But, man, I can’t believe you guys do all this research and the movies turn out as silly as they do.” Click, click, click. Click, click, click. It seemed to take forever.

“Well, what do you know? Alan Palmer did rent a car that day. And he was from Maryland too, same as y’all.”

“You need a valid driver’s license to rent a car, right?”

“Oh, yes, indeedy. Driver’s license and credit card, a real one, not a debit.”

It was all Tess could do to find her voice, thank the young man, leave the store, and make it back to her car. It felt as if the small parking lot was a mile wide. Carl followed, just as dazed. They did not get in the Toyota but just leaned against it, looking up at the night sky. They were far enough out in the country so the sky was riotous with stars.

“What’s happening here?” Carl asked at last. “Did Eric and Alan Palmer know each other? Was it some Strangers on a Train scenario? You kill mine and I’ll kill yours?”

“No,” Tess said, surprised by her own certainty. “Alan Palmer hadn’t met Lucy Fancher by the time Tiffani Gunts died. They wouldn’t meet for another year, remember? Their relationship began the spring of the following year.”

“Then it makes no sense.”

“There’s one way it makes sense.” Her mouth was dry, and she had to lick her lips to get the next sentence out. “Eric Shivers and Alan Palmer are the same person.”

“No way. That’s not possible. You heard the guy. Alan Palmer had a driver’s license and a credit card. How can he have those things if he’s really Eric Shivers?”

“Such things can be faked,” Tess said, thinking of the forger to whom Mickey Pechter had referred her just a few weeks ago. “Don’t you get it? By the time Tiffani Gunts died, Eric Shivers had already made the preparations to disappear, already had his next identity picked out. Alan Palmer could have done the same thing-had his new identity ready to go, rented a car, leaving his van where it would be seen, where his whereabouts would be presumed.”

“Alan Palmer is in a hospital in Connecticut.”

“Oh, I’m sure someone named Alan Palmer is in a hospital in Connecticut. And I bet he has a broken neck from a car accident. But did you check to see when he was admitted, or did you just take the word of that caseworker who called you?”

Carl looked down at the ground. “Didn’t seem like something a person would lie about. He was in the hospital. Never occurred to me to ask when he got there, because I thought I knew.”

“Eric is probably a real person, too. He’s just not the Eric Shivers who courted and wooed Tiffani Gunts.”

“Do you know what you’re saying?”

“The same man killed Tiffani Gunts and Lucy Fancher. And he’s still out there somewhere, probably in a new relationship. He’s found another dark-haired girl, a girl with a history of bad relationships, and he’s changing her life for the better. He’s getting her teeth fixed, helping her establish credit, urging her to go back to school and find a better job. Her friends and family love him, swear he’s the best thing that ever happened to her. They’re happy, they’re in love, and they’re going to get married.”

“You think-”

“I think this guy is the perfect boyfriend-up until the day he kills you.”

The Maryland State Police are strangely invisible to the people they protect. An average citizen, asked to explain what this branch of law enforcement does, would know only that they give out speeding tickets along the major highways. Those who read newspapers might recall that an undercover state trooper is almost always involved when a Marylander attempts to arrange a contract hit on a loved one. Troopers receive the most attention when they get killed in the line of duty.

Otherwise, no one seems quite sure what they do or why they exist. Not Tess, at least. But Carl had worked with troopers on the Fancher case and, presumably, knew what they did.

“I wish we didn’t have to depend on these guys,” Carl muttered, as he and Tess waited ten, twenty, thirty minutes past the scheduled meeting time. “Couldn’t we have gone straight to the FBI?”

“You know better than I that the FBI has no jurisdiction. Our guy may have rented a car in Virginia, but as far as we know he’s killed only within the boundaries of Maryland. Besides, the state police seemed awfully keen when I called.”

“If they’re so interested,” Carl said, “why are they making us wait?”

“To remind us that they’re more important than we are,” Tess said complacently. “Or to convince themselves of their own importance.”

“Trust me, they never doubt their own importance. They’re dicks. I hated working with them up in Cecil County.”

“They were in charge of the Lucy Fancher case, right?”

“Yes, and they were dicks. Know-it-all dicks. They’ll cut us out of this investigation in a heartbeat. Treat us like ordinary citizens.”

“We are ordinary citizens,” Tess pointed out. “But follow my lead in there, and we’ll be able to keep our hand in.”

Another five minutes elapsed before a secretary ushered them into a conference room where three uniformed men waited. In their stiff khaki uniforms, their broad-brimmed hats on the table in front of them, they gave the impression of wearing mirrored sunglasses, although they were not-their eyes were simply that flat and expressionless. No one offered an apology for making them wait, although the youngest of the three nodded at Carl.

“Carl,” he said.

“Corporal Gregg.” He nodded back.

“Craig. And I’ve made sergeant since we last met.”

“That’s right, you assisted on the Fancher case for a while, Mr. Dewitt,” said the middle of the three men. His nameplate identified him as Lieutenant Green. “Sergeant Craig briefed us on that situation. All water under the bridge, you’ll pardon the expression.”

Tess tried not to make a face at the ill-advised pun.

“Now we’ve looked at the two cases you believe are linked and already contacted VICAP,” Lieutenant Green continued. “No obvious connections have jumped out, but we have forty open homicides of adult women over the last five years-including another decapitation, although an arrest was made in that case. And in that case the body was found before the head.”

He looked quite pleased with himself for knowing this chronology was relevant. The oldest of the trio, Major Shields, rewarded him with a smile. This appeared to make Sergeant Craig, a boyish blond, eager for his share of approval.

“We’re also looking at domestics that were resolved as murder-suicides.”

“Resolved?” Tess echoed.

Major Shields caught her tone. “Resolved in the sense that they’re not ongoing cases. But we have to be open to the possibility that this killer-assuming you’re right about there being just one-has stopped killing because he’s already dead. Or he’s in another state. In which case, there’s not a lot we can do but put the word out and hope someone else is checking VICAP.”

“He wouldn’t kill himself,” Carl said. Tess wasn’t so sure, but she didn’t want the state police to see them as less than a united front, so she put a cautionary hand on the side of Carl’s leg, beneath the table where it couldn’t be seen. He let it rest there for a moment, then shook it off.