Geography of Murder (17 page)

At twelve sharp I slammed the last phone call—a little old lady, convinced her husband was the killer, since she hadn't seen him in three months. I probed her story and it turned out she had buried him at Calvary cemetery four months ago.

I wasn't sure what happened during the month that she claimed she did see him. I decided I didn't want to know and snatching my jacket off the back of my chair I thumped to my feet.

"One and only call: Lunch, El Torito. On me."

"Wow, big spender. That how you keep the young ones coming around for more?"

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"Shut up and go get us a car. After lunch we've got some people to see."

"Who?"

I checked the clip in my Beretta. "Taxidermists."

The server led us to a table in the back when she saw we were cops. A lot of restaurant patrons lose their appetite when they see a cop and his piece hunkering over a meal.

Maybe they think we're going to shoot the waiter if our eggs aren't cooked right. I ordered Red Bull and she went with decaf coffee. I kept throwing glances at the other diners, looking over at the front door then back at our table.

"What's up?" Nancy asked.

"What do you mean?"

She pointedly looked at my foot, which was bouncing off the floor, my whole leg vibrating. She raised one eyebrow.

"You only get this agitated when something's upsetting you.

Is it Garcia? The boy from the boat?"

"Nothing." I took a hit of Red Bull, knowing damn well it was something. My mind kept spinning back to this morning.

What the hell had possessed me to invite Jason to practically move in with me? Was I nuts? Sure the kid was hot in bed, and even out of the sack he was entertaining, but
live with
me
? When had that happened?

Part of me said pick up the phone right now and tell him to forget it. I didn't need some flaky kid that I knew next to nothing about crowding my living space. Tell him to go back to his loser apartment, and what? I'd go back to mine?

I shoveled a mouthful of spicy
carne asada
and glared at her. She looked back impassively.

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"How long we been partners?" she asked.

Too long if she was going to go all psychic momma on me.

"You ever think this," she indicated my bouncing leg,

"means you're doing the wrong thing? Maybe you need to stop and think about whatever it is you are doing."

Or maybe it meant for the first time in my life I was doing the right thing and part of me didn't want it to happen?

Forming ties, even tentative ones ... I haven't done that since my marriage failed. I pushed my palm against my leg, holding it in place. I took another slug of energy drink, though clearly the last thing I needed was more caffeine.

Her plate was empty.

"Ready to hit the road?" I sure as hell didn't want to carry on this conversation.

"You line up some taxidermists?"

I flipped my arm up and looked at my watch.

"Appointment at one-thirty. Mr. Geoffrey Lowe, spelled with a G—do not forget that."

She threw some cash on the table. I threw it back. "My treat, remember."

"Jesus, you really are soft on this guy."

"Let it go."

The taxidermy was in a small, red brick building with a green awning over the front door. Parking was shared with a podiatrist and a real estate office with a for-lease sign on it.

The interior was dark after the brilliant light outside. The walls were all dark paneled wood and covered with a surreal collection of animal heads. In front of the till there was a display case with several smaller animals, including a couple 165

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of birds. But no ravens. Or crows. All game animals as far as I could tell, though I didn't have a clue what a game animal was. It included an impressive looking black boar with tusks on it that looked like they would mean business.

Somehow my nine didn't seem really adequate anymore.

Nancy cleared her throat and I looked back to find a hulking bear of a man standing behind me. He followed my gaze.

"Mean looking sucker, ain't he? Bagged that one in Hawaii.

Let me tell you that was a trip and a half."

"I can imagine."

"No, I don't think you can."

I ignored the slight and held out my hand. "Mr. Lowe?"

He allowed as he was. I introduced Nancy and myself. We both flashed our badges. "We need some information. We're hoping you can help us."

"Sure. If I can." Like most civilians, he looked less than happy to have us here. I gave him the usual request for name, occupation and contact information. Then:

"How long have you been a taxidermist?"

"Six years."

"Decent job?"

"Pays the bills." Clearly not a talker.

"This your place?" I knew it was, but like any good lie detector, you threw out control questions and monitored the answers.

"Six years."

"Lots of people want things ... stuffed?" I looked back up at the boar's menacing black head.

"Enough."

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Maybe he liked taxidermy because his clients didn't talk to him.

"As I told you on the phone, my partner and I have few questions we were hoping you could answer."

"Ask them."

"If we were to show you a stuffed animal," Nancy cut in.

"Would you be able to tell us who did it?"

"First of all, they're not 'stuffed,' they're mounted. What we do here is art."

"Then would you recognize a particular artist's work?"

"Probably. I'd at least know if it was mine. You have something you want me to look at?"

"You do many birds?" I was reluctant to release the identity of the bird. It was a hold back, an item that could be identified only by the killer or close accomplices. As this morning had demonstrated, the world was full of yokels who got a kick out of confessing to crimes they didn't commit.

"Sure. Geese, ducks, pheasants, did a wild turkey once.

That was a beauty."

"Any other birds?"

"Lot of birds are protected," he said cautiously. "Can't touch 'em."

"Like what?"

He shrugged. I tried another track. "Say I brought in a crow? You do that?" I wished Jason was here, he'd be able to rattle off a dozen names of birds. I thought of all the birds I knew from personal experience. "What about sea gulls?

Pelicans? Eagles—"

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"You better not bring any eagles in to me. Or pelicans for that matter."

That struck a nerve. I pressed on, maybe I'd hit some more. "Penguins? Ostriches?" Even Nancy was looking at me.

"Ravens? Robins?"

"I don't know where you're from, mister, but I've never seen any of those things. Can't imagine why anyone outside a museum would want them."

"But you could do it, right?"

"Could. Haven't. Probably wouldn't. I serve the hunters around here who want to display their trophies."

"To remember them by?"

"Why else?"

I stared into the glass eyes of the monstrous boar head. I smiled. "Trophies."

Nancy nodded as she picked up on my thought. "Thank you, Mr. Lowe. I think we're done here."

"Don't know what good it was."

"You never know," she said. I followed her out the door back into the brilliant sun that wasn't doing a whole lot to warm things up. A trio of raucous sea gulls flew over our heads, heading out to sea. I followed their flight path and thought again of Jason. Waiting at home for me. Or was he?

Would he decide enough was enough, take my money and split?

Nancy unlocked the car door and leaned on the roof. "Good call, that. Trophies, huh?"

A lot of serial killers collected trophies from their victims.

The occasional one left them.

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"Let's go get that federal warrant rolling," I said, slapping the roof and climbing into the passenger seat. "Then we'll work on the logistics of getting our talkative friend to take a look at our bird."

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Geography of Murder

by P. A. Brown

I put thirty dollars in the tank and used the rest to
buy a six-pack of Mexicali beer. Back at Alex's I
gathered up every scrap of clothing I could find that I
suspected was dirty and went in search of the laundry
room. I found it in the very back of the house, beside a
utility closet. I separated the lights and darks with a lot
more care than I gave my own clothes and soon had a
load on.

I did some channel surfing after looking over Alex's selection of movies and deciding they weren't for me. I slouched on the sofa, my bird book open in my lap, the remote in my hand, restlessly flipping through all nine hundred plus channels. Up until now I never knew what they meant when they said there was nothing on. You'd think with nine hundred freaking channels someone could put on something decent. I finally settled on
here!
and some sex show, though I wasn't really watching. White noise to fill the background spaces.

I fell into the zone, reading about Tofino spring migratory birds until the alarm went off and it was time to go back to my Cinderella chores. In between loads of laundry I cleaned up the kitchen and the bathroom, found clean linen and changed the sheets, smoothing my hand over the covers before I spread the burgundy and black duvet back over it.

The domestic diva strikes again. Get back, demon dirt.

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When the place was as clean as I could get it, I took my book and binoculars and headed outside. Feet propped up on the second chair I idled away the time watching for anything that moved. I thought of having one of the beers I'd bought, but decided Alex wouldn't like that. Then I thought,
fuck that
shit,
and went to get a beer.

I settled back into the chair and scanned the skies. A turkey vulture glided through a domed sky so blue it bounced light back into my eyes. I flipped my binoculars up and followed his flight. He was joined by another bird, then a third. Looking for road kill, no doubt. The beer went down just fine.

I was tempted to get another one when I thought: car, binoculars, hiking boots, beautiful day. I was going to find someplace to enjoy it. I still had four hours before Spider would return. I'd watch the clock and get back in plenty of time.

In about five minutes I was on Gibraltar Road and climbing. My Honda labored, unfit for the journey. I pushed on. I had no idea how high I climbed. I passed Rattlesnake Canyon Park and a cluster of towers and power lines, taking the steep switchbacks slowly. When I finally pulled off the winding road into a side spur on the juncture of Camino Cielo and the San Marcos Pass and got out of the car, the air was crisp and cold with the definite bite of winter. Snow had fallen here recently; it still dusted the sprawling distant pines and the nearby scrub brush rattled in the moaning wind. The vultures had disappeared. Maybe they'd found their midday snack. Very few cars went by. This time of year there was 171

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little reason to travel the pass, aside from communities like Santa Ynez and Solvang, this area was pretty much recreational. I didn't have time to drive through to Solvang, the tiny transplanted Danish town complete with windmills, cobblestone streets and gingerbread houses. I wondered if I could ever talk Alex into visiting? Probably not. Alex didn't strike me as the touristy type who bought silly souvenirs and ate candy floss and roasted peanuts from a street vendor.

I raised my eyes and looked north, toward the higher peaks. I'd never make them in a day, but I had time to go a bit further.

I climbed back in the car and drove another half hour.

When I spotted a lookout jutting out over the steep hillside, I pulled off the road. My binoculars revealed a stretch of miles upon miles of raw green forest and white fingers of the odd sycamore and gray cottonwoods. In the other direction snow stained the distant peaks, a reminder that winter was here.

I pulled my cell out and flipped it open. I had a signal.

Good to know. I tried to think of someone I could call but no one came to mind. Scanning through my meager phone book, I realized how empty it was. Twenty-two years old and the social life of a slug.

A cloud of dust resolved into a battered Ram pickup truck.

It turned onto the dirt track that ran across from the lookout area. I had a brief glimpse of a red shirt before it drove past me, vanishing around a sharp bend into some heavy brush.

The dust cloud followed it. Then stopped. Overhead a new vulture, or maybe the same one, cruised by, wings unmoving in the thermals.

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I returned to my car. I was paying so much attention to the first truck that I didn't see the second until it pulled in behind my Honda. A skinny red-headed guy wearing shit kicker boots and a thick flannel shirt climbed out of his brand new Ford F150. A gun rack in the back window was empty but still managed to be menacing. I didn't feel any fear until he strolled over to me with that kind of rolling hipped gait men who are full of themselves employ. Movement out of the corner of my eye told me we had company. The red-shirted guy from the other truck. Were they tag teaming me? I backed toward the open door of my car, my cell phone firmly clenched in my fist.

"Hey, I was just heading home." Somehow I didn't think it would work to say my big bad-ass cop lover would be looking for me. "You guys lost?"

"We're not," the red-head said. He had a hoarse smoker's voice. His fingers were stubby nubs, stained with nicotine and probably gun powder. I swore I could smell the reek of beer even from this distance. "But I think you might be. We been watching you. We don't much like your type up here."