J. Black - Laura Cardinal - 01 - Darkness on the Edge of Town

DARKNESS ON THE EDGE OF TOWN

J. CARSON BLACK

Copyright © 2005; Margaret Falk. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by Breakaway Media

Tucson, Arizona (USA)

www.breakawaymedia.com

PRINTING HISTORY

First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., mass market edition / 2005

Published in Germany by Blanvalet, an imprint of Random House Publishing Group GmbH, Munich, mass market edition / 2005

111113

To the memory of my father:

A stray breeze on a hot day

The sun gentle on my face

1

VAIL, ARIZONA

Francis X. Entwistle showed up in Laura Cardinal’s bedroom at three in the morning, looking world-weary.

“Don’t get up, Lorie. Just wanted to give you a heads-up. A bad one’s coming.”

Frank’s complexion was pale and there were shadows under his eyes. In life, his face had been dull red from the high blood pressure that had killed him. A bottle of Tanqueray gin sat on the window table and the tumbler in Frank’s hand was about a quarter full. Laura didn’t own any tumblers and she didn’t drink gin.

Laura wasn’t entirely surprised that her old mentor was sitting in the straight-backed Mexican chair in her bedroom four months after his wife had buried him. Maybe because she knew she was dreaming. Or maybe because he was her last link to her parents, and she didn’t want him to be gone for good. Frank Entwistle leaned forward, the nightlight from the bathroom illuminating the scroll of white hair above his side part. “You’re gonna have to pay attention and keep on paying attention.”

He stopped to scratch the tip of his nose. Laura Cardinal realized the absurdity of the situation: Sitting in her bed at three in the morning, watching a dead homicide cop scratching his nose.

“I’m talking about the kind of thing, you aren’t careful, could come back around and bite you in the ass. The key word here is vigilance.”

She wanted him to clarify what he meant by that, but he was starting to fade.

He held his glass up in a salute. “Watch your back, kiddo.”

When she caught the case the next day, there was no doubt in Laura’s mind that it was the one Frank Entwistle had alluded to.

It was the weekend, and she was at her little house on the guest ranch where she lived rent-free. The owner, a friend from high school, liked the idea of having a criminal investigator from the Arizona Department of Public Safety living on his property.

The dream about Frank Entwistle remained with her, vivid and unsettling. It didn’t feel like a dream. When she got up this morning, she sleepwalked into the bathroom. In the dim glow of the nightlight, she saw a ring on the table left by a sweating glass. Instantly she was wide awake, her heart rate going through the roof, until she realized the real culprit was Tom Lightfoot. Tom never remembered to use a coaster.

It was Tom who had been on her mind all morning, Tom who had preoccupied her since he left two days ago on a packing trip to New Mexico.

This was because of the note stuck to the refrigerator: “Maybe we should live together - T”

Not “Love, T,” she noticed. The word “love” scared her anyway, so she wouldn’t hold that against him. What she did hold against him was the fact that he had blindsided her, leaving that note on her refrigerator and then creeping out of town. She couldn’t reach him in the back country. She couldn’t say they’d only been together two and a half months, that his house was just over the hill, that just because he spent every night with her anyway, he shouldn’t think he could move in. Living together was a whole different proposition from sleeping together. The last man she had lived with had been her husband, and that had not turned out well.

What bothered Laura most, though, was the part of her that leaped at the thought.

Restless, she went outside to water, the day already hot enough she had to run the hose awhile to avoid scalding the plants. Her mobile rang and she retreated into the shade with the phone.

It was Jerry Grimes, her sergeant. “You busy?”

“What’s up?” Knowing that whatever plans she had for a quiet weekend were about to be blown out of the water.

“Bisbee PD has asked for an assist on a homicide.”

As she listened, Laura forgot about Tom’s note. Frank Entwistle had warned her it would be bad, and it was. A fourteen-year-old girl had been found dead in a small town south of here.

“Mike’s talked to the chief down there, and we all agree,” Jerry said. “You’re the lead investigator on this. So don’t take any shit.”

He always said that, although Laura had never taken any shit yet. She knew the pep talk was just his way of showing support for her, a woman doing a man’s job. But being called in to assist on investigations in other jurisdictions—mostly small towns—Laura knew that petty politics were far more obstructive to an investigation than any effect her gender might have.

“Victor will meet you there as soon as he can. You know where the ADOT yard is this side of the tunnel?” Jerry said. “They’ll have someone from Bisbee PD there to escort you in.”

Fifteen minutes later, Laura turned her 4Runner onto Interstate 10 going east, dread pressing into her throat.

Fourteen years old.

2

Once on the road, Laura punched in the Jerry Grime’s number to get some background. Now she’d have time to absorb what he had to say.

“A girl named Jessica Parris was abducted yesterday from the street near her house. They think that’s where it happened; there weren’t any witnesses.”

“What time yesterday?”

“After school. She didn’t come home for dinner. Place is kind of out in the sticks. According to Bisbee PD, she lives—lived—at the end of West Boulevard.” Jerry paused. He reminded her of an old-time union boss, tough and gruff. This case, though, would get to him; he had three daughters of his own.

Jerry said, “A girl fitting the Parris girl’s description was found this morning in City Park. You know where that is?”

“On Brewery Gulch.”

“That’s right. Tourists went to see the bandshell and got a big surprise.”

She thought of how the tourists must have felt, that sudden drop in the pit of the stomach. “She was in the bandshell?”

“Propped up against the back wall. Kind of like a doll on a bed, the woman said. The witness’s name is Slaughter.” He paused to let the irony sink in. “Doris Ann Slaughter. Said the girl was dressed up in some way, I don’t know, like a doll dress.” He paused again—this was hard for him. “Victor’s coming from Marana. Should be a half hour behind you.”

Laura signed off and pushed the 4runner up to eighty, mesmerized by her own thoughts as the freeway unraveled before her. She hoped the storm would hold off until she got a look at the crime scene. The day was sunny, but the sky to the south and east was an ominous leaden blue.

The monsoon season had started July 4. They’d had a thunderstorm every day this week—uprooted trees, downed power lines, roofs torn off, the north-south streets of Tucson turned into flooded canals. A whole city held hostage by rain-swollen streets, many of them uncrossable. Ask a man who has been plucked by a helicopter from the roof of his pickup in a Tucson intersection just how quickly nature can trump progress.

This morning, the heat hadn’t yet built up sufficiently to produce the cumulonimbus clouds necessary for a thunderstorm, but Laura could feel the electricity in the air. She stopped at a fast food place in Benson for a breakfast sandwich—fuel—then drove south into the gathering gloom that seemed to press down on the mountains like a weight.