Consider the Crows (14 page)

Parkhurst shoved hard and Nick stumbled back, got caught by the bed and landed in a sprawl. Sullen hostility came down over his handsome face. Parkhurst strode across hockey stick, shoulder pads, helmet, cleats and snapped off the stereo. The sudden silence seemed to breathe like a living thing.

Nick rose. “You can't just walk in here.”

“Sit!”

A long second went by before Nick sat back on the bed.

“A little chat, Nick.” Parkhurst leaned against the wall by a bookshelf, books jumbled in crazy piles. “I think you have some interesting things to tell me.”

One corner of the kid's mouth lifted in a sneer that said, no way, cop. Wouldn't tell you which way is up.

Parkhurst smiled, looked at the posters of rock musicians on the walls, clothes spilling out of the closet, and the football holding open a book on the desk. “Nice room.”

He pushed himself from the wall, wandered to a speaker and ran one finger across the top, leaving a shiny streak in the dust. He picked up Calvin Klein jeans from the television set and dropped them on the floor. He was beginning to get an idea why Nick was so uptight.

At the desk, he leaned over to gaze at the Apple computer, then strolled past the foot of the bed to the other bookcase and touched a coffee mug shaped like the long-toothed Emerson wildcat, a pewter tankard with a Civil War flag stuck in it and a framed photo of Nick suited up in full football gear. Parkhurst's movements were lazy and offensive, calculated to hold a match to adolescent defenses, but he was alert to the slightest shift from Nick. The kid was on a short fuse.

“Lot of expensive stuff sitting around here.” Parkhurst rested his rear against the edge of the desk. “Where's the money come from?”

“You got no right to ask.”

“Oh, I think I do. I think illegal activities come right up there in my right to ask.”

Nick shrugged.

“Don't want to tell me? Doesn't matter. I think I can guess. Got yourself a little business going, what you educated types call a cottage industry.”

“It's the American way.”

Parkhurst stared at him. The kid was smooth-skinned and clear-eyed. He didn't look like a user. “You a Buddhist, kid?”

“What?”

“You're messing up your life, Nick. Either you're an asshole or you believe you have another chance at it. Could be, I don't know, but I don't think you should count on it. Better you stop fucking up, in case this is your only shot.” Parkhurst shook his head. “Besides, from the way you're handling this life you'll come back as a roach.”

The sneer slipped slightly.

Bingo. The stupid little shit. “Not that kind,” Parkhurst said. “Cockroach.” He wanted to grab the muscled shoulders and shake the kid's head loose. “Mingling with all these privileged kids makes you want what they've got, doesn't it, Nick? You never will.” Oh yeah, listen to me, my boy, I'll tell you a few ugly truths.

“You can sell drugs and buy shit like this.” He waved a hand around the room. “But all the stereos and fancy pants in the world won't get you what they've got. That comes from background. You can't buy it and you can't change yours.”

You haul it around all your life, Parkhurst added silently. From his father he'd inherited a violent temper and, as the old man got more abusive and progressively lost in the bottle, a hatred of drunks, a contempt for authority, but worst of all, a sense of failure. From his mother, he inherited something even more dangerous. Dreams, a love of books, and yearnings; undefined and consequently impossible to satisfy.

“You'll get your ass kicked right out of here.”

“You got to prove it first, cop.”

“Do I? You sure of that, Nick? A word or two in the appropriate ear and you'd be surprised what could happen.” A little flick of fear went through Nick's dark eyes.

Parkhurst gave it time to take root. “Somebody like Dr. Kalazar might find it very interesting, don't you think? You know her, Nick?”

“No.”

“The vice-chancellor? You don't know her?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your girlfriend's mother.”

“What about her?”

What indeed, Parkhurst thought. Resentment there. Julie probably kept him away from her mother and that made him feel like garbage. “You ever talk to her?”

“Why would I?”

It was a reasonable response. Parkhurst dropped that line of questioning. “What about Lynnelle?”

“What about her?”

“Why'd you kill her?” The edge of the desk was cutting into Parkhurst's butt and he shifted slightly. It wouldn't do for Dirty Harry to rub his numb ass.

“You'd like to hang it on me, wouldn't you? No way, cop. I didn't do it and you can't prove I did.”

“In that case you won't mind telling me about her.”

“I already told you. She was Julie's friend.”

“You didn't like her much.”

Nick shrugged. “She was all right.”

Parkhurst waited.

“I didn't trust her,” Nick said grudgingly. “She let us use her house sometimes.”

“You and Julie?”

“Yeah. Julie was afraid of her mother so we had to be real secret.” Nick spoke with the disgust of a hardass who's not afraid of anybody. “I just wondered what was in it for Lynnelle.”

“Since you felt that way, why'd you accept the use of her house?”

Nick shrugged again. “Julie wouldn't go with me anywhere else in case somebody saw us. The place was a dump. Didn't even have any beds.”

It occurred to Parkhurst that Nick might have a reason, besides satisfying his hormones, for meeting Julie at Lynnelle's. Only a step away was the thought that Nick could have killed Lynnelle because she discovered what he was up to.

Goddamn the kid. Even without a murder charge, he was in a lot of trouble. Parkhurst crossed his arms and trapped his fists under his armpits. “My daddy use to tell me,” he said, “if the freight train is coming in the tunnel, it's time to stop playing on the rails.”

Nick eyed him warily.

“I'm the freight train, tiger. You better stop playing on the rails or I'm going to squash you flat.”

Parkhurst left before he pounded the kid.

*   *   *

The Weymore Travel Agency was tucked neatly between Unerring Dry Cleaners and Fenn's Drugs on State Street a block below Main. Fran Weymore was the only good thing that came from an aerobics class Susan had mistakenly thought she wanted to take. She never could get too thrilled about exercise of any kind, but guilt or something had her out there pounding off miles. She was still waiting for that ecstatic euphoria that seemed to hit every other jogger. The weather here was such that only about three days a year were suitable for running; the rest were either too hot or too cold, so she'd looked around for an alternative. One aerobics class almost did her in. Thereafter, she'd substituted swimming.

Fran looked up from her desk with a professional smile when the door opened, then grimaced when Susan came in. “Oh, it's you.”

“And it's good to see you too.”

The office was equipped with a large desk, turquoise carpeting so thick you sank into it, curve-backed chairs in a pale salmon color and vivid-colored travel posters on the walls. Walking in was an experience to dazzle the eye. On a credenza behind the desk a pot of water simmered discreetly on a hot plate next to stacked boxes of the herbal tea Fran was addicted to.

“I don't suppose you've come to ask me to plan your trip to Europe.” Fran wore a full turquoise skirt that matched the carpet, white blouse, a belt of silver medallions and white fringed boots; thirty-five and single, with a facility for collecting unsuitable men. Her hair color and style changed periodically. Today she had an abundance of wild red tresses cascading around her face and she did tricky things with eye makeup.

“New man in your life?” Each new relationship started out with a new hair color; maybe the thinking was if the color was right, the man would be right.

Fran grinned and tossed a lock of hair over her shoulder. “I haven't been a redhead in a long time. What do you think?”

“Looks terrific.” Susan dropped into a chair, stretched out her legs and crossed her feet. “What happened to what's-his-name?”

“All those sports were starting to affect me. I was beginning to think about baseball. Why are you here? You want some raspberry tea?”

Without waiting for an answer, she swiveled and, digging her heels into the carpet, squeaked the chair to the credenza. She poured hot water in a cup and dunked in a tea bag, then squeaked back and offered the cup.

Susan shook her head. “Audrey Kalazar.”

Fran swept a half-dozen bracelets up her arm with a silvery tinkle. “What's she done to attract the attention of the police?”

“Gone missing. She isn't at a conference she's supposed to be attending.”

“Supposed to be?”

“She never turned up.”

Fran stared at her blankly for a moment, then removed the tea bag and took a sip of hot red liquid.

“Did you see her on Saturday?” Susan asked.

Fran nodded.

“What time?”

“Eleven, a little before. She came in to pick up her tickets.”

“What did she say?”

“Hand 'em over, or words to that effect.”

“No ‘hello, how are you, nice weather we're having, great to be getting away'?”

Fran blew gently over the surface of the tea and took another sip. “She picked up the tickets, stowed them in her purse and left.”

“One o'clock flight to Dallas.”

“Right. One
P.M.
, Sunday.”

“Sunday? Are you sure?”

“Of course, I'm sure,” Fran said tartly.

“Sunday? She said she was leaving on Saturday.”

“Don't look at me like that. Sunday afternoon flight to Dallas. Return Tuesday evening.”

Susan slid lower in the chair and rested her head on the back. Dr. Kalazar told everyone she was leaving a day earlier than she actually was. Why the hell? Some plan, some activity she didn't want known? What, for God's sake? Giving the illusion the cat was away so the mice could play? Julie? Keith? She went somewhere before the conference? Where? Why?

Fran was watching her with eyebrows raised. “Something interesting going on in there?”

“Not yet.”

“You want to see my records?” She sat the cup in the saucer with a clink and extracted a folder from the file cabinet. She showed Susan times and dates for Audrey Kalazar's flights.

“Thanks,” Susan said.

Fran eyed her with a calculating look. “You work too hard, no social life. How would you like to meet a plastic surgeon? He could make you over to look like anybody you wanted. Or a composite. Nose from one, chin from somebody else.”

“You're passing him on?”

Fran flushed. “I have something else going right now. Besides I kinda like being me.”

“How would you like a kitten?”

Fran laughed. “Sophie finally got you, did she? You keep refusing all these social offers and you're gonna end up just like her. Nuts.”

When Susan returned to the pickup she found Parkhurst waiting, leaning against a fender with his arms crossed.

12

W
HEN HE GAVE
her a tight little grin, she felt a spurt of adrenaline. “What? Some progress for a change?”

“You might say that. A lead on Lynnelle's next of kin.”

“It's about time. What have you got?”

“Stepfather. Right here in Hampstead.”

She looked at him. “We've been chasing addresses and employers all over Oklahoma and Colorado and he's right here?”

“At the Sunflower Hotel. Care to go pay him a visit?” Parkhurst opened the door of the Bronco and she climbed in.

“What's his name?”

“Ingram.” Parkhurst shut the door, trotted around to the other side and slid under the wheel. “Herbert Ingram.”

“Herbert Ingram? Audrey Kalazar had him pencilled on her calendar for four-thirty today. How do we know he's at the Sunflower?”

“Osey spent his lunch hour making phone calls. The S's paid off. The name kind of like Shoehorn turned out to be Shoenhowser. Sound like Shoehorn to you? Not to me either. Osey got hold of Shelley's mother. She gave him Ingram. Dentist, lives in Kansas City. Osey got on to his secretary and she was the one who explained Ingram was in Hampstead.”

“Lo and behold.” She blew out a breath. “Get anywhere on Audrey Kalazar?”

“All negatives. She didn't get on the commuter flight to Kansas City. Her car isn't at the airport. Nobody saw her there. She didn't get on the flight in Kansas City to Dallas. So far all we have, she got in her car at home and drove off.”

“She picked up her tickets.” Susan told him what she'd learned from Fran.

The Sunflower Hotel was built in the early 1900s and refurbished fairly recently. The lobby had a lot of gold paint, Victorian furniture and heavy chandeliers.

Parkhurst rapped on the door of room 315.

A man in his fifties, wearing brown pants and a white shirt, opened the door; brown hair, bland round face and brown eyes that regarded them with friendly interest, a man who wanted to be liked.

“I'm Chief Wren.” She held up her ID. “This is Lieutenant Parkhurst.”

“What can I do for you?”

“We'd like to speak with you.”

Ingram blinked slowly twice, paused then blinked again. “Why would the police want to talk to me?”

“We're conducting an investigation, Mr. Ingram. It's important that we talk with you.”

“I must say, you're quite mysterious.” He had a slight trace of a southern accent, so faint it was only noticeable on certain words.

A queen-sized bed with a pale-pink bedspread took up one side of the room. His suitcoat lay across the foot. Next to the bed was a table with telephone and small radio. Victorian prints hung on walls papered with a dusky pink stripe. Beneath the window were two chairs and a round table. In the corner stood a television set.