Consider the Crows (9 page)

Susan thought Egersund must be pretty strong to stand firm against Parkhurst's questioning. “What have we got on her?”

“Osey's working on it.” He paced back across the room, reversed direction, took six strides to the desk and stopped. “What happened to your hands?”

“Nothing.” She slid her hands, crisscrossed with scratches, from the desktop to her lap. Giving the kitten a bath hadn't been one of her brighter ideas. “If you see Sophie anywhere, let me know. I want to talk with her.”

He took six strides to the window, paused to stare through the blind slats. “I just came from your hotshot attorney.”

“Mine?”

“McKinnon's one of the new breed.” Parkhurst turned. “Sensitive, probably has emotions. The kind recommended in how-to-choose-a-mate books written by women.”

“Ha. In other words, a nice man. Never having had that quality yourself, you simply didn't recognize it.”

Parkhurst grinned. “Never trust a man who doesn't hit you when you call him a liar.”

“You called David McKinnon a liar?”

“The merest of suggestions.” He resumed pacing.

“What did you merely suggest he was lying about?”

“The reason he let the kid stay there. He said she needed a place to live, the house was empty.”

“You have a quarrel with that?”

“I pushed on it a little,
merely suggesting
there might be more to it.” Parkhurst picked up a glass paperweight from the desk on his next pass and tossed it into the air. “In a manly cringe of embarrassment, he admitted that was true. What else, I asked. Guilt, he said.”

“I assume you followed up on that?”

“You can believe it. That's when we descended into pop psychology. Turned out we weren't talking guilt about murder, but Guilt with a capital
G.
Vague concerns of neglecting—unfortunate result of divorce—his own daughter who is only a few years younger.” Parkhurst held up the paperweight and stared broodily into it. “I prefer simple motives like lust or greed.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Lust is fairly self-explanatory. Greed, maybe that doesn't apply. Unless it came from the other side.” He tossed the paperweight, caught it and set it back on the desk. “Maybe Lynnelle had some leverage to convince him to let her stay there.”

“Blackmail?” Susan thought of the phone call Edie had overheard.
You'll be sorry.

“It's another simple motive, self-preservation.”

“Any evidence?”

“No.” He paced to the window.

“Parkhurst, sit down! You're making me dizzy.”

Hazel stuck a worried face around the doorway. She'd been dispatcher here for more work years than Susan's and Parkhurst's combined and took care of everybody with little clucks of concern. The friction between the two of them bothered her motherly soul.

Parkhurst leaned back, propped his shoulders and one foot against the wall and raised an eyebrow. Susan put an enquiring look on her face. Hazel gave them each a frown of exasperation, the adult who is about to say, if you two can't get along, go to your rooms. When she withdrew, Parkhurst hooked an ankle around the chair leg, pulled it closer and sat low on his spine.

Susan told him about Julie Kalazar's mention of a notebook and her defensiveness about Nick Salvatierra. “Check again for that notebook. I know—” She raised a hand. “We couldn't have missed it. Just check. And get a read on this kid. Julie's afraid for him, and I want to know why.”

Parkhurst rose.

“And Parkhurst, don't be rough with this kid. Understand?”

“I'll use my fatherly manner.”

“You don't have a fatherly manner.”

He smiled. “Depends on what kind of father you had.”

*   *   *

At one, Susan walked the three blocks over to Second Street, headed for the Coffee Cup Café. Whenever she passed two or more people together, she heard Lynnelle's name mentioned. Six times in the five minutes it took her to get there. People were nervous. Take heed, she told herself, raise the department's visibility.

Above the café, a sign showed happy donuts and sandwiches dancing on the steam rising from a huge cup of mud-colored liquid. Inside, it smelled of frying hamburger and fresh-cut onions. The place was crowded, noisy with chatter and the clatter of crockery; all the booths along the front windows were full and most of the stools at the counter.

Bess Greely presided at the cash register and greeted her with a big smile. “What can I get for you?” Large-boned and stout, short brownish hair, round face with a short upper lip, her greatest pleasure in life was feeding people. She wore a loose-fitting dress in a loud print, red and orange poppies.

“It's terrible about that young one,” she said as she packaged the turkey sandwich Susan had requested.

Big-city crime was anonymous, small-town crime touched everybody.

The two brawny males in Levi's and plaid shirts sitting on the nearest stools stopped arguing politics and looked at her. “Just let me alone with him in a dark alley for ten minutes,” one of them said. “I'd show him how we feel around here about murdering girls.”

Oh great, Susan thought. Just what we need.

Bess nodded agreement at the vigilante, turned back to Susan and handed her the sandwich. “What else would you like?”

“That'll do it.”

“Now you have to have more than that. That's not enough to keep a bird alive. How 'bout a nice piece of apple pie? Fresh-baked.”

It was easier to agree than to argue and Susan left with sandwich and pie before Bess could suggest ice cream to go along with it.

Back at her desk, she spread out a napkin, opened the wrapper and was all set to take a hefty bite when Detective Osey Pickett ambled in.

“Just got off the phone with Austin, Texas.” He collapsed into the armchair. “About this Radler guy. Owned the VW?”

Osey, twenty-nine years old with straw-colored hair, was thin and lanky, and had large hands and feet that always seemed to get in his way. His speech was a lot slower than his thoughts, and he had a bashful, aw-shucks sense of humor. In dealing with the public, he was affable and low-keyed. Unlike Parkhurst, who could put the fear of God into people, Osey went out of his way to be generous and considerate. People tended to like Osey.

“Said he traded it in for a new Ford Taurus six months ago. I got Oklahoma City putting an eyeball on the dealer's invoices.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, not really. Mail carrier remembers letters from somebody in Kansas City. First name is Shelley. He remembers it because his little girl's got the same name. Can't remember the last name. Thought it was something like Shoehorn. Near as I can find out, there's nobody name of Shoehorn in Kansas City.”

“What about the telephone records?”

“I'm just about to go over there right now.” In a series of uncoordinated jerks, he got to his feet.

“Let's hope she called home once a week.”

“Or even somewhere with a toll.” He sketched a salute.

She picked up the sandwich, but hadn't even gotten her mouth open when the phone buzzed.

“Mayor Bakover on the line,” Hazel said.

Briefly, Susan considered saying she was out. “Put him through.”

“Where are you on this hippie's murder?”

“We are proceeding with the investigation.”

“I hope you're proceeding in a hurry. I told you to get her out of there. If you had, this wouldn't have happened.”

That was so unjust, she didn't even bother to respond to it.

“Concerned citizens are wondering if we should set up a curfew.”

“That might be a little precipitate.” She could just imagine how the college students would react to that.

The mayor made a disgruntled sound. “Keep me informed.”

“Yes sir, I'll do that.”

When she finally got to her sandwich, the bread was slightly dried around the edges.

*   *   *

Carena was short-tempered with the denseness of young minds that weren't grasping the elements of statistical test of hypothesis. She labored to get across null hypothesis, alternative hypothesis, test statistic and rejection region. With forced patience, she attempted to explain that the specification of those elements defined a particular test and changing one or more created a new test. By last period the pounding in her head was so great her teeth hurt and when the class finally ground to an end the skin on her face felt too tight.

Most of the students scooped up their belongings and clattered out, but a handful clustered around her desk. Standing behind it like it was a barricade, she forced a smile and murmured as she packed her briefcase that questions would have to wait, she didn't have time this afternoon. With good-natured grumbling they scattered, all except Julie Kalazar, who hesitated, hands in the pockets of a full khaki skirt. She wore a long yellow sweater over it with a print scarf tied around her waist.

“Dr. Egersund, I wonder—”

Carena shoved papers into her briefcase and snapped it shut with a loud click.

“Could I talk to you for a minute?”

Carena clenched her teeth against a sharp response; she'd reached the end of her reserve and couldn't cope with one more problem. “I'm sorry, Julie, I really must go. Could it wait until tomorrow?”

“I just wondered if the police were, you know, guarding the place.”

“I have no idea, Julie. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Julie said too quickly.

With an effort, something like separating velcro, Carena pulled her mind from her own worry and really looked at Julie. Her young wholesome face, framed by straight brown hair, looked sallow above the yellow sweater, and the skin slack with worry.

Carena regretted her shortness. Poor kid. Her well-structured life had suddenly developed cracks in the walls and she could glimpse the monsters outside.

“Well, thanks—” Julie started to leave.

“Julie?”

She turned.

“I doubt the police are still out there, but I don't know. Is there something there you wanted?”

“No. I just, you know, wondered.”

“Can I help—?”

Julie shook her head, and Carena got the impression she was sorry she'd opened her mouth. She's afraid, Carena realized, scared stiff the police will find something out there. Wondering if it's safe to go and get it.

Clutching her briefcase, Carena walked slowly and carefully to avoid jarring her pounding head.

In the parking lot, she had to set the briefcase on the ground before she could unlock the car door. Resting her forehead against the steering wheel, she thought, if the old Volvo doesn't start, I'm going to shriek. Cantankerous at the best of times, it invariably picked last straw moments to refuse to budge.

She straightened, stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. The motor ground slowly and she fed it a little gas—too much and she'd flood it, then it wouldn't start for God knew how long. The motor coughed and sputtered, she coaxed it gently, and remembered Lynnelle's dog. The poor thing was probably in dire need.

Alexa heard her drive into the garage and barked with short, staccato yips. When the kitchen door opened, the dog threw itself on her with joyous delirium. Dodging wet kisses, she knelt and hugged the big furry dog. “Never before has my mere appearance made anybody so happy.”

When Alexa calmed a bit, Carena let her out in the backyard and stood in the screened porch while the dog trotted around investigating interesting scents and taking care of needs. The yard was fenced across the back and along one side; the only unfenced area was the space between the garage and the house.

The dog, glancing up at Carena every now and again with a wave of her tail, worked her way toward the garage. Then with a final glance, she took off, bounding down the driveway.

“Alexa!” Carena hit the screen door with her palm and dashed down the steps. At the end of the driveway, she saw the dog streak around the corner.

“Lexi!” She raced to the corner, circled the block, then dashed in for her car keys and drove through the neighborhood, making wider and wider circles. “Should have known better than to let the damn dog out without a leash.”

She doesn't even belong to me. Oh gee, I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but you see I let her out. She had to go out, you know, and then she ran away and then this great big truck came along and squashed her flat.

Oh hell, bloody hell.

Don't panic.
Nicht panikan,
as Father says. Maybe the dog is headed for Lynnelle's; it is the only home the poor thing knows.

Carena searched both sides of the streets, horribly afraid of coming upon a furry white carcass in the gutter. By the time she reached the Creighton place it was almost four-thirty and beginning to get dark. The temperature had dropped and she shivered as she got out of the car. Pigeons or something nested under the eaves and she heard ghostly stirrings. The wind blew, stinging her face. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her tweed coat.

“Alexa? Lexi!” Her breath made little frosty clouds in the cold air. She waited, called again and then heard a responding bark. The dog was somewhere in the woods.

“Lexi!” She set off across the irregular stones under the oak tree with the rope swing, and traipsed through winter-dead grass.

It was darker under the trees, a shadowy dark that lent imagined form to shapes just behind the next tree trunk. She wasn't dressed for hiking through the wilderness and her heels sank into damp, rotting vegetation. There goes a perfectly good pair of black pumps.

She heard squishy sounds of footsteps on wet leaves and stopped to look behind her, expecting to see someone. Trees and low undergrowth, not even a squirrel scampered along the ground. Letting her imagination get away from her.

“Lexi? Come here, you dumb dog.” She forged on and heard more squishy sounds. Hair prickled on the back of her neck. She spun around and thought she saw a shadow melt behind a tree. She waited, but there was no movement. The wind, she told herself. “Lexi?”