Т Паркер - Where Serpents Lie

Abby smiled, but hadn’t taken her eyes off the screen. “I’d like to have a little boy someday.”

“You’ve come to the right place to find good guys. You’ll get chosen a lot — believe me.”

“Thanks. I mean, I hope so.”

“It’s difficult raising them alone, but it has its rewards. How do you work it with your ex, the custody, I mean, do you have a regular schedule?”

“He gets Brittany every other weekend.”

“Same as mine. I wish I could see them more, but let’s face it, mothers make better mothers.”

When the video ended she looked at him.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It’s okay. No, I mean, I really like it. The technical part is just perfect, and you made me look good. It’s a keeper.”

He smiled. “I thought you’d like it.”

“You enjoy this, don’t you?”

He nodded but said nothing.

“How long have you been working for Bright Tomorrows?”

He went kind of quiet then, like he always did when they got aggressive, but he told her: about a year now. Just one of my accounts. Kind of a subcontractor with them. Work with some other dating services. Also do weddings. Parties. Events. Whatever. Do some work just for the fun of it.

He mustered up some extra courage and offered her a true personal anecdote, though he resented her for making him do it: “Last year this couple got married in a hot-air balloon and I went up with them. I do almost any kind of video or still photography, really.”

If she sensed his uneasiness, or smelled his something-dead-inside breath, she gave no sign of it.

“Fun job,” she said.

He signed off on the video request sheet for BTs, then detached her carbon copy and set it on the table by the monitor. She was reaching for it but he didn’t hand it to her, didn’t want to risk any contact, it would just ruin everything. Get touched, get hurt was what he’d gathered about women. Nice to look at, but keep your skin to yourself. Skin is personal.

“It’s been a pleasure, Abby,” he said.

She stood and gathered her purse off the chair.

“Thanks... oh gawd, not again—”

“David Lumsden. You’re really very welcome. And good luck with BTs.”

She offered her hand but he just opened the door for her and smiled and looked at her eyes, pretending he didn’t see it.

I called CAY together right after the morning brief. We meet in a small room without windows or interruptions and we tend to work fast.

We read through the profile and I told them I thought a proactive stance was too risky now. All agreed except for Frances, who was visibly rattled when I told her that Strickley had predicted a quickening of The Horridus’s pace, and a likely escalation to rape and murder if he felt we were close to him. Frances is a stocky blonde with a fair Scandinavian complexion that seems to register everything she’s thinking. She colored after I spoke my piece.

“We can’t wait,” she said.

“Nobody’s going to wait, Frances,” I said. “That’s why we’re here. What do you have on the fabric he used for the robes?”

Frances did her rundown: it was a material made of nylon, rayon, polyester and/or Lurex, from one of three domestic manufacturers, or one of several offshore. It had various trade names — Wyla, Allure Stretch Mesh, Lacy Sawtooth Galoon, Deco-Mesh, Tuff-Net, Angel’s Wing, Gossamesh. They made it in the U.S., Mexico and China. She could get a maker from the crime lab, but it would take time. The stuff was sold in scores of county yard goods stores, costume supply houses, five-and-dimes — from $1.19 to $7.99 per yard, depending on the design imprinted on the mesh and the quality. Ours was plain white. She had already worked the bigger outlets to see if a man had recently purchased any in quantity — but with our scant physical description it had been a shot in the dark. With Strickley’s profile, she’d start all over again.

“And the safety pins are a bust,” she added. “They’re standard issue — you can get them anywhere.”

I assigned her the real estate listings for any homes offered for sale in the past three months that had a detached studio or maid’s quarters. I told her he’d be in a hurry to sell, so watch for the bargains. And ignore the mansions — they’d be out of his price range.

“Johnny,” I said, “the vehicle.”

He’d been working the van — trying to find a late-model red Chrysler/Plymouth/Dodge for sale — and came up with three. One of the sellers was a woman, and one a Vietnamese Baptist priest, but number three was at least a possible: a thirty-two-year-old white male named Gary Cross who said he was tired of spending the money on gas and wanted something smaller.

“It’s a red Chrysler Town and Country,” said Johnny. “Loaded and pampered. Interior is red and the backseats are out. Cross works a day shift at a Lucky’s Market up in Anaheim. He’s got no priors, his work record is clean, seems to be well liked. I’ve been watching him after work — he lifts weights and plays racquetball. Has a steady girl. I’m not smelling much.”

Johnny leaned back and looked at me with his sharp, almost black eyes. He dresses for a plainclothes assignment whether he’s working a case or not: today’s garb was chinos, black snakeskin cowboy boots, a crisp white T-shirt with a pocket and a silver chain running from his wallet to a belt loop. Twenty years ago he was down for the barrio on Raitt Street, a kickass homeboy known as Gato because he was fast and elegant, even as a kid. He’s one of the few — the very few — who’ve managed to pull themselves out of that life and make a real one. He’s a good man and he has much to be thankful for now. He’s thirty-two years old, with a wife named Gloria — of striking beauty — and three kids. I’d like to dress more like him, but I’m too conventional to pull it off. Johnny’s my favorite deputy in the department, not counting Melinda, of course. He’s got a quick mind, a big heart, a wicked smile over a sharp goatee and a widow’s peak of thick black hair that completes his handsome-as-the-devil look. I trust him with my life.

“Stay on him for another couple of days,” I said. “In the meantime, check the coroner’s files for all deaths of elderly women under suspicious circumstances in the last year. Do the homicides and suicides first. Make that age fifty and up — she might have had him young. Toss out anyone not white or childless.”

“Why? What am I looking for?”

“Something Strickley said. It’s not in the profile. I just had the thought that the death of his mother would be a wonderful precipitator, especially if he caused it.”

“Killed his own mother?” asked Frances.

“You’re thinking like these creeps more every day,” said Johnny, with a smile.

“That’s our leader,” said Frances, her color restored.

“Louis — how’s the vintage clothing business?”

“I’ve got twenty-six shops in the county, eight of them have kids’ sections, but girls’ dresses are pretty rare. The thing is, most of them just fall apart. Jeans and jackets, that’s another story. I’ve gone to six of the stores — two more to go, up in the north county. Nobody remembers selling any little girls’ dresses to a guy. The record keeping in these secondhand stores is pretty loose. I’ll try our revised physical description on the clerks, but I won’t bet on much. My insides, especially after this profile, tell me that the clothes are his. I mean, they used to belong to someone he knew — sister or cousin or friend. Who knows, maybe his mother dressed him up that way when he was little. Sounds like she could have, from the profile.”

“I think you’re right,” I said. “But do the last two stores. After that, help Frances with the houses for sale — that’s a big job.”