Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (18 page)

Exposing himself, escalating to kidnapping. From the information she had before her now, she knew exactly what kind of man Heywood was. Heywood was a sexual predator.

She contacted Heywood's parole officer in LA, a man named Chuck Dumphy. Dumphy told Laura that Heywood had successfully completed his parole a few months ago and that they had not spoken since. He gave her the address where he was currently living in Fullerton, California.

“By current, I mean to the end of his parole. He can go anywhere now,.” Dumphy said.

“You know him. What do you think?”

“He's got a wife, and the apartment is in her name. He gave me the impression that he's happily married, but you know how it is.”

He agreed to fax her a photo of Heywood. “If we're lucky, it should come through in a few minutes. Never know with the equipment we've got here.”

The fax started up just as Jaime came in. He motioned to an extra chair by Victor Celaya's empty desk and Laura nodded.

He rolled the chair up beside her, peered down at the photo coming through. “Who's that?”

Laura told him, saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes. Jaime stared at the photo. “You're thinking he's the guy was the one Patsy saw with Kristy Groves?”

“Could be.”

Jaime leaned forward, squinted. “
Looks
like a child molester.”

The photo was actually two mug shots, front and side. Heywood's age was listed as thirty-four, but he looked older—he could have been in his mid-forties. His gaunt face was bisected by a thick mustache that straddled his mouth like a large moth. His cheeks were like angular apples, hard and shiny. Dark bushy hair, parted at the side. He had the deep tan of someone who worked outdoors. Cleft chin. Spindly neck. White T-shirt.

His eyes, like so many eyes she'd seen looking out of mug shots, were dead.

Laura plucked the photo out of the tray and stood up. “Patsy Groves hasn't flown out yet, has she?”

________

They found Patsy Groves baking herself on a chaise by the pool. She wore a navy swimsuit with a flowered skirt and white sunglasses. A tropical drink on the table next to her.

Laura remained a pace or two behind Jaime, aware that Patsy liked Jaime and didn't seem to like her.

“Mrs. Groves?” Jaime asked.

Patsy Groves cupped one palm over her sunglasses and smiled at him. “Jaime? That's your name, right? Or do you prefer to be called ‘detective’?”

Jaime cleared his throat. “Either way is fine. Mrs. Groves—Pat—we have something we'd like you to take a look at.”

She sat up, careful to keep her legs together. In the flat bright sunlight, her varicose veins didn't look so bad, but Laura thought they would look a lot worse anywhere else. All that time spent working on her feet at the deli, she thought.

Jaime handed her the sheet they had put together. It contained the photograph of Robert Heywood along with headshots of five other men.

She looked at it briefly and pointed at the photo in the left-hand bottom corner. “That's him.”

Laura's heart quickened.

Jaime said, “This is the man you saw talking to your daughter at the Pima County Fair?”

“I'd know him anywhere.”

“Could you look again just to make sure?”

“I don't have to. I remember it like it was yesterday. He was that close.” She motioned to the glass doors opening onto the hotel bar area thirty feet away. “It was outside one of the restrooms. He was leaning against the wall, you know, in the shade, talking to Kristy.”

Jaime said, “How old would you say he was?”

Patsy looked at him suspiciously. “Is this a trick question?”

“No, ma'am. I'm just—“

“Let me look at it again.”

He handed it to her, and this time she looked at it for a long time. At last she said, “He's older in this picture, but other than that, he looks exactly the same.”

How much older?
Laura had to stop herself from asking. It was best to let Jaime handle Patsy Groves.

Jaime asked the question instead.

“I'd say he's at least ten to fifteen years older than the guy I saw. But the thing is, he hasn't changed.”

“You only saw him for a few minutes. How can you be sure?”

Patsy said, “Because when I called to Kristy, he looked at me. Took off his sunglasses and stared a hole right through me. Like he wanted me to die.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“How many times are we going to bother these people?” Jaime said as they turned off Broadway into the Colonia Solana neighborhood.

“Until we get it right.”

Jaime shook his head. Laura noticed that when he was upset, his Brylcreem seemed to smell more. Or maybe it was being in an enclosed vehicle with him.

“Bill Smith was the guy who took her,” Jaime added.

“I know.”

“You think he and Heywood worked together? Why didn't the Brashear kid mention him?” Jaime stared out the passenger side window. “Maybe these crimes aren't related.”

“We talked about that.”

“Yeah,
coincidence
. Can you give me one link between these three cases?”

Laura slowed at an intersection. The streets meandered through thickets of cactus, mesquite, and palo verde trees. Every corner was blind. “The only link is Heywood and the carnival.”

She'd just started to crawl forward when a red car zoomed past, nearly wiping them out.

Laura hit the brakes. “Dammit!”

The car disappeared behind a wall of trees.

Jaime said, “Who'd think a paradise like this would be dangerous?”

When they reached the Brashear house, they got a surprise. The red Pontiac Solstice that had nearly wiped them out was parked in the driveway near the front door.

Laura stopped the car on the road and watched as Micaela Brashear, wearing tiny shorts and a camisole top, emerged from the sporty little car. Her legs were a mile long. She saw them and waved. Waited for them to approach.

As they reached the house, beads of sweat popping out on Jaime's face. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

“I heard about that little girl. Jenny?” Micaela asked, hooking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Is that why you're here?”

She wore very dark, chic sunglasses. Too much base makeup, but girls did that these days. She looked as cool and beautiful as a young movie star in LA. Laura wondered how anyone could look so put-together in this wilting heat. “We want you to look at some photographs.”

“Are they of Bill?”

“No, they're not of Bill.”

“Oh. What happened to your arm?”

Laura said, “I banged it.”

“Oh.”

Laura thought Micaela would invite them in, but she didn't. They stood on the half-oval steps of the mini-mansion, wrapped in the heat. Jaime removed the six-pack of photos they had put together from the leather binder he carried. Micaela took the photos and looked at them for a good long time. “I don't recognize any of them. Did one of them kidnap the other girls?”

“We don't know,” Laura said. “Could you look again?”

Jaime shot her a look, but Laura ignored him.

Micaela held the photo closer to her face, her lips moving as she studied the photographs. Shook her head.

Laura was convinced that Heywood had something to do with this, that at some time or another, he'd crossed paths with Bill Smith. But there was no way she could tip her hand and let Micaela know which photo was Heywood's. Not if she wanted it to stand up in court.

Micaela removed her sunglasses and looked at Laura with her beautiful, slightly strange eyes. “I wish I could say I knew him, but I don't.”

“That's all right. I wouldn't want you to say something you don't believe. Did Bill Smith ever mention a man named Robert?”

“Robert?” She looked confused.

“Did he ever talk to you about other people?” Laura wondering what kind of conversations they would have over their chili dogs at night. Such a bizarre situation.

She shook her head. “There might have been a Robert, but I never heard the name.”

Jaime shifted his stance and stared up at the juniper branch above their heads. Laura knew Jaime was worried she was pushing too hard, trying to put words in Micaela's mouth. But she thought of Jenny's tiny bones and had to. She thought of The Missing Girl, Lily, and had to. “Have you ever heard the name Robert Heywood?”

Jaime standing beside her like a lump of granite. A disapproving lump of granite.

“Not that I know of,” Micaela said. Her eyes beseeching. “I wish I could help you, but I just can't.”

Laura was disappointed, but tried not to show it. She thanked Micaela, and they started back to the car. Perspiration trickling down her armpits under the cotton blouse. Suddenly desperately thirsty. She said to Jaime, “Let's stop at eegee's and get a—”

“Detective,” Micaela called after them.

Laura and Jaime turned back.

“One of those men,” she said. “Did he kill the other girls?”

“We don't know.”

“But he's a suspect? Where do you think I met him?”

Laura didn't want to say. She didn't want to plant something in Micaela's mind. “He's just someone who came up during the investigation.”

“Oh, okay. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. If you don't know him, you don't know him.”

Micaela Brashear stood there like a flamingo, her long legs flickering in the sun and shadow, one hand on the wall of the arched alcove. “Well, I don't.”

Laura felt the urge to again reassure her that it was okay, but didn't.

Jaime said, “Thanks, and I hope we didn't mess up your day.”

Micaela laughed. “No way that could happen.” Then she turned and let herself into the house.

For a moment, Laura felt a pang. She wished she were that young again. Worried only about how she looked.

She remembered how innocent she had been at twenty.

Then she realized that Micaela Brashear was anything but.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Steve awoke to the late afternoon sun like a hot brand on his arm. He glanced at the radio clock.

Almost four p.m.

He'd slept all day.

He sat up and the muscles in his arms, back, chest, and shoulders all shrieked at once. The pain was excruciating.

Tags jingled. Jake appeared in the doorway, looking at him quizzically.

“Hey, buddy. Long night.” Steve put his feet on the floor, wincing at the agony in his back. He'd always had a strong back and strong legs, could hunker down for hours following rock strata.

Jake padded over to him and shoved his nose under Steve's hand. Steve rubbed his head, but even his fingers ached—every bone, every knuckle. His head ached, too—it felt like a massive hangover.

He'd never been much of a drinker, but there had been a time—what, over a decade ago? A time when he had drunk a little too much. This had been after his fiancée had broken it off with him, when he’d been still living in California. He'd decided pretty quickly he was heading down the wrong road and made the decision to give up alcohol entirely. It had been a simple thing to do, because he hadn't been invested in it all that much. Looking back, those few bad months had been little more than an insignificant blip in a relatively uneventful and sober life.