Bye Bye Bones (A CASSIDY CLARK NOVEL Book 1) (27 page)

“So it’s not a case of if she can’t have him, no one will. It’s that she’s eliminating anyone that he might have,” Carson murmured.

I asked them to run through the list of victims and find any more possible links between them and Jaxon Giles, no matter how brief, innocent, or petty. At this point, any of them standing in line behind Jaxon at a Walmart or Nordstrom’s would be good enough for me.

I had closed my tablet when Schlep said, “Hold on. If it’s her perceived competition that she’s eliminating, why not Jessica Silva?”

“ It’s the game. The building of confidence.

“Schlep, can you run down the name of Vickery’s last hired and fired shrink?”

“Sure.”

“Send me his contact information. I’m suddenly feeling sick in the head. We need to nail this woman with facts and forensic evidence. Again, we have no room for any of those CSI Effect in the courtroom.”

He motioned me in to sit down. I’ve seen plenty, but I was taken aback at the surroundings of what was one of the most prominent doctor’s offices in all of Tucson.

I had walked straight into one of Hemmingway’s houses. Rattan and bamboo furnishings. Exotic palm prints. Tropical ceiling fans. Colorful art with no meaning, I suppose, unless you were an aficionado of the abstract that had no meaning. Of course, that’s probably where his talents came in. I could just hear him. “What do you see? No. What do you really see?”

He motioned me toward a deep cushion chair with wide, curved arms, befitting as furnishings under a ramada on some tropical island.

“I understand you need me today. I’m here. You are here. Why don’t you begin by telling me why you need to see me.”

“You were told I’m suicidal?”

“And you were directed to go to the hospital, but declined.”

“I’m here under false pretenses.”

“And you think I don’t know this, Ms. Smith?”

“I’m sorry. Of course, I’ll pay for your time.”

“Of course, you will. Let’s start with a real name.”

“My name is Cassidy Clark.”

“Go on.”

His dour look gave me a stomach ache. “I want to know about a former patient of yours.” I sloughed my business card across his desk.

He didn’t look up, but instead, staring at his empty desk, he said, “Out of the question. Pay my receptionist for your hour on your way out.”

“It’s Sandra Vickery.”

Opitz actually showed some animation. His eyebrows peaked into toothpick-like cattle-guard fencing. A twitch. Two twitches.

“We both know what she is capable of. And I’m now certain she is culpable for many if not all of the missing women here in our sleepy oasis of the Old Pueblo. “

“It’s doctor and patient confidentiality. My door is closed to you. Please.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been fired. I will find grounds to incriminate you for future acts of crimes you could have prevented.”

“Now I know you really are insane.”

“What about the fact that you and I both know who Vickery’s main target is? And that you did nothing to save this woman. A woman named Jessica Silva?”

Opitz straightened up from his already too straight of a chair. He folded his arms behind his back and gave motion toward a nice and gentle self-massage. He reached in to the open top drawer of his desk and pulled out his recording device. Turned it off.

I pulled mine out of my purse. Turned it off.

He placed his hands, palms up, across the desk. “Even this year’s DSM manual, the bible of mental illness and the abyss it enfolds, refuses to recognize the existence of a psychopath. There are no true methods of diagnosis that are acceptable, and there certainly are no known methods of treatment.

“It is my opinion that one of my former patients is a true psychopath. She is planning, but all of her motions seem to be without consequence to her. She plans, and she acts. Repents, maybe. Repeats. Likely.”

“I believe that she will retain and detach from as many psychiatrists and psychologists that she can, until she finds the one that will affirm to her that she is justified. That she’s right. That she’s a rare gift to the world and destined to be with Jaxon Giles, almost as a prize. Her prize. Not his. But just like a fine bottle of Caymus Cabernet, she will drink him down to the last drop. Do you agree this might sound like one of your patients, past or present?”

“Are we finished here?”

“Will you testify?”
“Not without a subpoena.”

I took that as a yes.

“Manning, we need to talk. Now.”

Chief Manning pitched his eyebrows; the burned out fluorescent bulb above his desk caused the dim lighting that made his eyes look like a carved out Halloween pumpkin.

“I believe you two know each other,” he said.

“You?” I dropped my shoulders.

The woman sat poised with an arched back. She glanced up at me, then toward her diamond watch.

“Chief Manning, it was a pleasure seeing you again,” Sandra Vickery said as she stood to leave. Her shoulder clipped my side, hard; I would have been bruised except for her shoulder pads that looked to be straight out of the eighties. Then again, knowing the woman, she had just returned from the Paris runways where they had made a return to the fashion world.

“What the hell was she doing here?” I demanded. “Tell me that was a bad hallucination.”

“She’s a citizen. And unlike you, she had the decency to make an appointment. Now, what do you want?”

“I sent you an updated file. We have some new information. I wanted to go over it with you in person,”

“You mean on Michael Scores?”

“Are you kidding me? I’m talking about Vickery.”

“Cass, you know where the department stands on the missing women and any involvement with Ms. Vickery in any way. The cases are closed. I’m sorry for the families. I truly am. But we have a taped confession and all the details fit together. They’re tighter than O.J. and his leather gloves.”

“That’s just it. It’s too tight.”

Manning dropped his pen and braced the palms of his hands on his desk.

“Cassidy, take a good look outside of my office. See all those people out there? We’re dealing with two new possible stash houses, a missing man with dementia, and another gang-related shooting on the south side. That’s pretty much a slow day for us here, but also typical. Tucson got rocked with a serial killer. We know that. It’s disturbing. But it does happen. Now, life goes on and crime goes on and we need to start solving the crimes that are going to happen tomorrow.”

“If that were true you’d keep someone on Jessica Silva,” I said.

“That ship has sailed, Cassie.”

“Take a look at my files, Chief. Then you put it in writing, to me, that your cases are solved. Friend to friend. I won’t bug you again.”

“Fat chance on keeping you out of my hair. What’s left of it. I’ll look at what you have this afternoon, Kiddo.”

“When you call me kiddo you’re trying to placate me.”

“And I’ll placate you more. Remember those bodies, or remnants of bodies found in the desert? The ones with no teeth?”

“Of course.”

“We have reason to believe it was not the Mexican cartel. More like Tucson’s very own Italian mafia.

“And that’s all you get. There’s no case for you in this. I just thought I’d try to bring some sort of peace to that warped mind of yours.”

“Too bad. One of my best friends lives in Italy. She’s married to the one and only Anthony Bibbione.”

Manning rolled his head back. “Crap. Forget I said anything.”

I raised my shoulders and dropped my chin.

“In spite of you doing that turtle thing again, you’re looking great these days. Must be getting laid.”

“You’re looking mean and ugly. Must not be getting laid.”

Jaxon still wanted someone from our team watching out for her as she managed her daily routines. Without feeling like she was in prison.

“If you’re sure,” I said. I needed my man on another domestic case, but I was willing to fill in.

“We’re good to go for the night. And tomorrow morning. I have meetings that start up around ten so I’d like a car here before I leave.”

“One will be there. Your house. Outside of your gate. Nine o’clock.”

“You win, Cassie. There may be something to this. Just don’t make me look like a fool. You can imagine no one was happy about attacking one of our finer citezen’s.”

“You mean one of your largest sources of contribution.”

“Say what you like. We can search her home.”

“It’s what’s in her outbuildings,” I said. I knew it.

“We take what we can get. I personally fought the judge for this warrant. She has that back property titled to her company, Vickery Pools. That is not on the warrant.”

“I want to be there.”

“Work your heebie-jeebies kind of magic and avoid a speeding ticket. I’m pulling up her drive right now.”

A sergeant called down from the top of the stairs.

“You’re going to want to see this.”

We both raced up the stairs. A wide landing showcased paintings, sculptures, and gallery benches we could see from the first floor.

The officers pointed us to go down two hallways that led toward the back of the house. Only a few feet into each hallway, and just out of eyeshot from anyone below, the sight was straight out of Jed Clampett meets the hoarders.

The first officer had cleared a path into the bedroom. Stacked to the high ceiling, water-stained boxes with clothing and papers sticking out of them looked like they could topple over. The floor was littered with unopened mail, newspaper clippings, and old magazines. Clothing, both new and with tags and some clearly tattered, lay crumpled in huge piles. Three old mattresses propped up against the wall showed evidence of urine and blood.

“Maybe menstrual,” the officer said.

“I’ll be damned. Don’t touch anything,” Manning said. “Where the hell are forensics?”

“On the way, Sir,” the office replied.

I stared from the doorways in to the other rooms. Holiday decorations, some expensive and some as cheap as tinsel and cardboard, filled corners. An open box held what must have been twenty or thirty old telephones. Lots of clocks. More clothes. Toys. Even some camping gear. Every room, choked full of nonsense, told another story of Sandra Vickery.

“Wait,” I yelled. “I recognize something.” I maneuvered my way toward the separate shower stall.

“This hat. That guy that was killed in the cabin—”

“Karl Marks?”

“Yes. This hat is his. He was wearing it the night I met him at that bar.”

“You sure? Lots of hats look alike,” Manning said.

“Positive. The broken feather. He wore it with the shitty broken feather, thinking he ws still a stud muffin.

“Oh my God, and this jacket. We have photographs of the congresswoman wearing this same jacket. These are trophies.”

Manning yelled out to his officers. Nobody was to touch anything until the forensics team arrived.

I wandered down one of the back halls.

“Cassidy. I said no one was to touch anything,” Manning barked.

I did that dang turtle thing, but then I held my gloved hands up for him to see. “The exterior of the house shows a second entry. I’m sure you have a man stationed there, right.”

“Err, well, of course.”

“The door isn’t exactly ornate. It’s a piece of junk. I’m guessing there are servants’ quarters back here. I just want to take a look.”

“Crimany,” I heard Manning mutter as I disappeared into the depths of more hell.

No hired help had lived in the home in years. That was obvious. I saw what at one time must have served as maids’ quarters, but the space, with a small bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, all appeared to be out of code. It looked like all of the other rooms. Stuffed with the kind of garbage that would surely be a dumps best friend, it also reeked.

Taking the back staircase down to what was likely the main kitchen, I inspected the rear entry door. I opened it, and scared the be-jesus out of one of Manning’s inept men.

The giggle came out of my mouth, but I quickly closed both my mouth and the door. I had to ask the officer to radio Manning to clear me. He hadn’t thought of it.

I heard Manning. “Shit. You might as well.”

Something didn’t ring right about it. The architecture didn’t make sense. An excavated lower door led to the four-car garage. That was an integral part of the house so I decided it wasn’t off limits, per the warrant.

A quiver of fear rose through my spine. I started in with the hair raised on the nape of my neck. There was a throbbing at my temples. I had to blink my eyes in rapid succession. I knew this was the place. I just didn’t understand the strange elevation.

And then Manning screamed for me.

“Get units over to both houses.”

“What is it?” I demanded.

“Jessica Silva never showed up at Giles’ house. And he’s freaking out because he can’t find his damn cell phone? What the devil is wrong with this?”

The very devil, I deduced, based on my now sweaty palms.