Among the Missing (7 page)

After several rings, a woman's voice spoke to him.

"Sierra College, Betty Morris speaking. May I help you?"

"You sound like a real person, Betty," Rusty said.

"Why, thank you. I am."

"Not voice mail?"

"No, sir. We like to keep the personal touch."

"Well, here's one fellow who appreciates it."

"And who might you be?"

"Name's Russell Hodges. I'm with the county sheriff's office."

"You are the county sheriff."

"That's right, ma'am."

"How may I help you, Sheriff?"

"I'd like to speak to someone about the identity of a woman who might be connected to your school."

"You may speak to me about it, if you'd like."

"Do you have access to the various records?"

"I'm the only person on campus with such access, Sheriff Hodges. Unless you'd prefer to wait until Monday morning."

"You'll do just fine, Betty. What I'd like is some information about Alison Parkington. She apparently resides in Santa Monica, but her car windshield has one of your summer parking stickers."

"Ah. Well, she would be the wife of Dr. Grant Parkington. He's a guest lecturer for our summer literature program. From UCLA? The Coleridge man."

"May I have his address?"

"His Santa Monica address, or . . . ?"

"Where I can find him today."

"Just a moment, please. I'll have to look that up." After a brief silence, Betty's voice returned. "His summer residence is sixty-eight Cove Road. He and Mrs. Parkington are staying in Professor Dill's condominium. Dr. Dill is away on sabbatical leave."

Rusty jotted the information in his notebook. "Very good," he said. "Thank you so much for your help, Betty."

"You're very welcome, Sheriff. Let me just say, I vote for you every chance I get."

"Well, I appreciate that." He hung up and started back toward his patrol car.

"Hey, Sheriff." It was Herby Swaymen's way of saying goodbye.

"Hey, Herby," Rusty called. Then he climbed into his car and headed for Cove Road.

The condominiums at Pyramid Cove were nicely kept, and the sign that proclaimed COUNTRY CLUB LIVING wasn't far wrong. Rusty drove along Cove Road, looking at the tennis courts, at the condos with their well-kept lawns, at the people walking by in swimsuits or tennis whites.

A major change from the days when the Cove had been an overgrown inlet visited by men in puttering motorboats and boys with cane fishing poles. A change not necessarily for the worse. It saddened Rusty to see the old ways go. They were part of him, but also he liked the carefree, well-off atmosphere at the new Pyramid Cove where everyone seemed to be on vacation.

He parked in front of number sixty-eight, crossed the perfectly trimmed yard, and rang the doorbell. The door opened quickly. For a moment, the bearded face of the man inside showed relief. But it quickly turned to disappointment, then alarm.

"Are you Grant Parkington?" Rusty asked.

The man nodded. He appeared to be about fifty years old. Fairly handsome, tanned, in good shape. His light brown hair, shiny with a scattering of gray, was rumpled as if he'd just awakened.'He wore glasses with round lenses and wire frames that made him look very academic and old-fashioned. He also sported a bushy mustache.

Quite the professor, Rusty thought.

But like everyone else at the Cove, he looked as if he were vacationing at an upscale resort. His bright, flowered shirt was open to the middle of his chest, and untucked. His knee length white shorts looked clean but wrinkled. He was barefoot.

"I'm Sheriff Hodges."

"Sheriff? What's happened?"

"May I come in?"

"Yes. Of course." He stepped back. After Rusty was inside, he shut the door. "What's happened to her?" he asked. "This is about Alison, isn't it?"

"We're not a hundred percent sure it's your wife, Dr. Parkington, but a woman's body was found this morning near the river. Your wife's car was nearby." He unbuttoned the flap of his shirt pocket and pulled out a driver's license. "I took this from a purse in the car."

"That's Alison's," Grant muttered. "Oh, God."

"As I said, we're not sure it's her body."

Grant reached out with a trembling hand and tapped his forefinger against the license's color photo. "Her picture. That's her picture. Did you . . . ?"

"I'm afraid there are circumstances. . . ." Rusty's voice faltered as he tried to figure a tasteful way to describe the situation.

"What circumstances?"

"Maybe you'd like to sit down, Dr. Parkington." Gently, he took the man by the elbow and led him to a sofa that seemed to be upholstered in zebra skin.

"Why couldn't you tell from the photo? She wasn't . . . disfigured? She was always so beautiful . . . a thing of beauty, a joy forever. Oh, God!"

"I'm afraid the killer took . . ." Rusty started over. "She was decapitated. So far, I'm afraid we haven't been able to locate the head."

Grant gazed up at him, his eyes red and wide. "Decapitated? No. You're . . . You're having me on."

"We'll need you to identify the body. She must've had certain freckles, scars . . ."

"Her head is gone?"

"I'm afraid so."

"And you can't find it?"

"Apparently, the killer took it with him."

"Oh, dear God!" Grant shook his head, rubbing his tangled hair. "She was so beautiful. The most . . . he must've thought so, too."

"Who's that?"

"The killer. The man who did this."

"Uh-huh."

"Do you know Byron?" Grant asked, looking into Rusty's eyes.

"Byron who?"

"Lord Byron. The poet."

"Oh. Sure. I've heard of him."

"He wanted Shelley's head. He wanted it for a drinking mug. After Shelley drowned off Viareggio. Maybe that's why the killer wanted Alison's head. For a mug. Do you suppose?"

"I guess it's possible."

While Rusty drove, Grant Parkington stared at the dashboard of the patrol car, his head moving slowly from side to side.

"Was your wife with you last night?" Rusty asked.

"Oh, yes."

"What time did she leave?"

"I don't know. Very late. In the vicinity of one, one-thirty, I should think."

"That is late. Why did she go out?"

" 'What makes her in the wood so late, a furlong from the castle gate?' Maybe dreams of knights. I don't know."

"What?" Rusty asked.

The professor smiled strangely. " 'Cristobel.' "

"That another poet?"

"A poem. By Samuel Taylor Coleridge."

"Had you and your wife been arguing at the time she left?"

"No. Oh, no, not at all."

"Did she go by herself?"

"All alone."

"But you weren't having any sort of fight?"

"No. I already told you that. This was just a thing she enjoyed doing. Taking off for a wild drive through the night."

"What was she wearing?"

"Her nightgown. A diaphanous white negligee."

"What else?"

"Slippers? I believe she wore slippers. And naturally she had her purse. She never went anywhere without her purse."

"Is that all?"

"Nothing more."

"Why didn't she get dressed before she left?"

"It was simply her way. She liked to think of herself as quite scandalous. Something of a Zelda Fitzgerald, you know. It excited her, made her feel special."

"Did she tell you where she was going?"

"Out. 'I'm going out.' " He turned toward Rusty and slowly smoothed one side of his mustache with a forefinger. "She did go out, too. She went out, and went out. Snuffed like a candle."

"Do you know anyone she might've gone to meet?"

"No. No." He shook his head. "No. Nobody."

At the morgue, Rusty studied Grant Parkington's reaction to the sight of his wife's body. The man pressed a hand to his open mouth as if to hold in a scream. But he examined her with care, pointing out the mole beneath her left breast, the brown oblong birthmark on her right thigh, how the small toenail of her right foot was missing. Then he broke down crying.

Rusty led him out of the room.

Chapter Nine

The Digs

As Pac watched, a tine of her rake snagged a white cord. Jack Staffer dropped to his knees in front of her, slipped a finger beneath the cord, and lifted. Sand fell away as he pulled the nightgown free. "This belong to you?" he asked Pac.

"Never use the things," she said.

"Lucky Ham."

"You betcha."

"Do you think it's hers?" Jack asked.

"Until I find out otherwise." She dropped the rake, hurried over to her case and took out a clear plastic bag. She brought it to Jack. He dropped the nightgown inside. "How would you like to get the shovel?" she asked.

"Sure thing."

While Jack went for it, Pac looked down at the shallow dip in the sand. She felt a chill and rubbed her arms.

"You want me to do the honors?" Jack asked.

"Go ahead."

He pushed the broad head of the shovel into the sand and lifted out a load. Fine granules spilled off the shovel like water. He dumped the rest off to the side, turned again to the hole, and jabbed the blade in. It made a harsh, scraping sound.

"Maybe got something here," Jack said. He lifted out the shovel, and a pink slipper came up with the sand. "Its twin must be around here someplace."

Soon, the second slipper came up.

"The guy must've thrown everything into the same hole," Pac said.

"Nice for us."

Jack kept digging, pushing the shovel deep into the sand. Soon, its blade clinked against steel. Dropping to his knees, he brushed sand away until he uncovered a black plastic handle.

"Be careful. Prints."

The hacksaw was all there, its steel back glaring with sunlight, its blade coated with a fine crust of sand.

"Looks like we've got us the murder weapon," Jack said.

"Not exactly," Pac told him. "The murder weapon was probably the river. This is what he used afterward."

"Nice guy," Jack muttered.

"A real prince," said Pac.

Chapter Ten

Two Women

"Look who's here."

"I was in the neighborhood," Rusty said, "so I thought I'd drop by for lunch."

Millie unplugged the iron, set it upright, and stepped around the ironing board. She was barefoot. She wore white jeans. The tails of her pale blue blouse hung out.

Rusty wrapped his arms around her, pulled her tightly against him and kissed her. They kissed for a long time, Rusty enjoying the warm moist smoothness of her lips, the curves of her back, the pressure of her breasts against him, her flat belly and the jut of her hip bones.

When she started to unzip his trousers, he caught her hand.

"A slight injury," he explained.

"Hernia?" she asked.

"Fist."

"Oh, you poor thing. How did it happen?"

"Some freaky girl got me from behind while I was questioning her boyfriend."

"Beware the freaky girls."

"She had an eyebrow ring. And a lip ring." He thought about the other parts of Trink that had been pierced and adorned with rings, but decided not to mention them. He could just imagine Millie giving him the look, and saying, And how exactly did you happen to get a look there? The less Millie heard about that, the better.

"It must've really hurt," she said.

"Getting her eyebrow pierced?"

"Getting hit in the family jewels."

"It wasn't fun."

"Let's have a little peek."

"Suit yourself."

Rusty helped by removing his gunbelt. Millie unfastened his waist button, lowered the zipper, and let his pants fall around his ankles. Then she pulled down his boxer shorts. If she noticed they were damp, she probably assumed the moisture was from his sweat.

Probably is sweat, Rusty thought. They'd had plenty of time to dry after his swim.

Millie crouched in front of him. "Everything looks okay down here."

"Doesn't feel so good."

"You know, maybe it does look a little swollen. Maybe we should put some steak on it. Some meat for your meat."

"Real nice. Anyway, that's for black eyes."

"Same principle, don't you think?"

"I think we should save the steak for a meal and keep it away from my equipment."

She laughed. "Equipment?"

"You know."

"Maybe I can help the equipment feel a little better." She lifted his penis and kissed it. "Does that help?"

"Sure does."

He decided not to mention that his injury was slightly lower.

She kissed him again.

He felt her open, slippery lips.

When they went away, she said, "I guess that wasn't such a good idea." She smiled up at him. "The swelling got worse."

"Sure did."

"Better quit that," she said, and pulled his shorts up. "We don't want to do something that'll make the situation worse."

"I think you helped."

"Think so? Glad to hear it." She stood, lifting his trousers. "Now, how about some lunch?"

"That'd be great."

"What would you like?"

"That steak you mentioned?" he asked as he fastened his waist button.

"It's frozen. How about an omelet?"

"Great." He pulled his zipper up.

"It'll take a few minutes."

"That's fine. I need some rest, anyway." He sat down gently on a kitchen chair and watched Millie begin to prepare his lunch. "You remember Bass Paxton?" he asked.

"Harney's friend? Sure I do."

"He and his girlfriend found a body this morning."

"Oh, yuck."

"To say the least."

"That's one thing I'd sure hate to find. Some stiff. Nasty. Funerals are bad enough, God knows. But if you go to a funeral, at least you can expect to meet up with a corpse. To have one pop up when you're not even expecting it -- awful."

"They weren't ecstatic about it."

"I should think not. Do you want some nice diced ham in this?"

"Sounds good."

"How'd the person die?"

"We're not sure yet. From the look of her, I'd say she was either strangled or drowned. The autopsy should be going on right now."

"Right at this moment?"

"Should be."

"How appetizing."