The Highway (5 page)

Tubman slowly studied each of the printed photographs she’d brought him, his eyes dancing across every inch of every one, the set of his mouth pulling back into a smile of satisfaction. After he studied a photo, he placed it faceup and side by side on his desk in chronological order as they’d been taken. Soon, the photos stretched across the desk from corner to corner in three neat rows.

She had no desire to look again at the photos. After all, she’d taken them the night before. She was sick about what she’d set in motion. What Tubman had forced her to do.

*   *   *

The large envelope containing the prints had been locked inside her briefcase under her desk the entire day. They were there when she and Cody met to start assembling the murder book on Roger Tokely. Cody was patient with her and walked her through the process of methodically assembling the crime scene reports and photographs, the preliminary coroner’s report, the case file time line, the written recap of their initial investigation.

They were there when the crime scene techs, twenty-year veteran Tex McIntire and Alexa Manning, his new twenty-seven-year-old lesbian assistant (further proof of Tubman’s diversity program at work), burst into the investigator’s office to announce their find in Tokely’s garbage can. Not only did they locate a credit card receipt signed by Brantley Meyers, aka “B. G.”, but they’d also bagged fragments of food that might determine B. G.’s presence, via DNA, inside the Tokely residence on the night of the murder.

She’d watched Cody closely when they heard the news. He seemed genuinely pleased.

*   *   *

Cassie knew what she had. And she dreaded showing the photos to the sheriff. He’d been out all day on a campaign swing to Lincoln and other small communities in northern Lewis and Clark County. With each hour, her tension increased. She’d passed on lunch when Cody asked, and said she was trying to diet. He nodded back knowingly, practically telegraphing his approval to try and lose a few pounds, but reminded her of the maxim he’d always lived by: “Take every possible opportunity you can to eat and take a shit, because this county is 3,500 square miles, a third of it roadless.”

As soon as he was gone she drove to Taco Bell and ate herself through half the menu, it seemed. Stress did that to her. So did boredom. So did
everything
, she thought ruefully.

Sheriff Tubman had returned to the Law Enforcement Center at four thirty and looked in on Cody and Cassie. When she looked up and met Tubman’s eyes he knew immediately.

“Got a minute?” the sheriff asked her.

“Yes.”

“My office, please,” he said, and shut the door behind him.

Cody had asked her what the meeting was about.

“How should I know?” she lied.

“Tell him he’s a prick,” Cody had said. “Tell him I’ve seen better leaders on the end of my fly line.”

“I’m sure I’ll do that,” she responded, and grabbed the handle of her briefcase on the way out.

*   *   *

It was more than two weeks since daylight savings time had ended and she hated how early it got dark. As she sat across from the sheriff she looked over his shoulder through the window. White-blue lights were strobing to life in the parking lot. She could see clerical staff trundling out to their cars in heavy coats, condensation puffs revealing their conversation. After five, the LEC cleared out. She wished she was one of them. And given what was about to happen, she wondered for the first time since accepting the job if she was really cut out for it.

“Here you can clearly see he’s turned his headlights out,” Tubman said, looking at the first two photographs. She’d used the night-vision setup on her digital Canon Rebel. Cody had taught her how to use it, she thought with a stab of guilt. The full moon had really helped as well.

Tubman said, “The only possible reason he’d do that would be so the citizens up on the bench wouldn’t notice a vehicle. That’s the only real explanation, since we all know the Tokely residence was empty.”

She nodded once but said nothing.

“What’s this in his hand and under his arm?” Tubman asked, looking at the next few photos. “It looks like a bag of something. A paper bag.

“And here he is standing on the front porch looking back. Trying to see if anyone is watching him. Is it possible he could see you?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s obvious,” Tubman said, practically rubbing his hands together with joy. “Because in the next shot he’s bending down picking the lock. That’s breaking and entering right there, as well as proof that he’s trying to do something worse. Because if he had a legitimate reason to go back into that house, all he had to do was file a request for the keys from the evidence room.”

She tried to swallow but her mouth was dry.

“So we jump ahead,” Tubman said. “The next few shots show nothing, just his vehicle and the dark house. But that tells us something right there, because he made a decision
not
to turn on any lights. Why would an investigator do such a thing? Why would a red-blooded, honest cop sneak into a crime scene and bump around in the dark? Gee, that’s a tough one,” Tubman said with heavy sarcasm.

“And here he comes out of the house. How long was he in there, Investigator Dewell?”

She cleared her throat but had trouble speaking.

“How long? I didn’t get that.”

“Seven minutes, sir.”

“Seven minutes. That’s a very short period of time to do a thorough investigation or follow up on a lead, don’t you think?”

“Please, sir,” she said.

“Okay, be that way,” he said dismissively. He turned his attention to the last few prints.

“He comes out after seven minutes and what do you know? He no longer has the paper bag! He must have thrown it away inside because he’s such a stickler for littering, don’t you think?”

She said nothing.

“And here he is looking around again. Trying to see if anyone saw him. Do you think at that point he was suspicious of you?”

“He might have heard my car, sir. I started it up because I was freezing and I wanted to turn the heater on.”

“But he didn’t see you.”

“No.”

“And he hasn’t asked you what you were doing last night?”

“No.”

Tubman sat back in his chair with a grin and looked at her. He said, “Good work, Investigator Dewell. Damned good work. I’ve finally gotten that son of a bitch, thanks to you.”

She looked away.

“I know you didn’t feel comfortable following him when I asked you,” Tubman said. “But you did your duty. You should be proud. No one wants a crooked cop in their department, much less a crooked partner. Why do you look like I shot your dog?”

“I just don’t feel good about this,” she said. “He’s such a great cop in so many ways.”

“Bullshit,” Tubman said sharply, sitting forward and glaring at her over the prints. “He’s been a pain in my ass since we hired him. There’s a good reason why he got kicked off the Denver Metro police force—because he’s a renegade. He might have solved some cases but who is to say he didn’t plant evidence then?”

She said, “He had the highest arrest rate in Denver. I looked it up. And he’s got the highest rate here. He’s your best cop when it comes to solving felonies. You
know
that.”

“What I know,” Tubman said, “is that the happiest day of my career is when I see his ass going out my door.”

Before she could respond, Tubman reached for his phone and punched the intercom button.

“Hoyt,” Tubman said, “I need to see you in my office.”

He grinned as he lowered the handset onto the cradle.

Cassie felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. She said, “You’re going to do this while I’m in the room? You’re actually going to do this now? So he knows who brought him down?”

Tubman waggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. He said, “I need a witness to the execution.”

“I’d rather it not be me, sir.”

“You’re looking at this all wrong, Dewell,” Tubman said. “You brought down a crooked cop. The
Independent Record
will love it. The Billings
Gazette
will love it. And the voters will love it.”

She took in a ragged breath of air and exhaled it through her nose. “I’m not running for anything,” she said.

“Keep up this good work,” he said, “and someday you might be. I mean, plenty of years from now.” He meant it as a good-natured joke but she didn’t smile.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in, Investigator Hoyt,” Tubman said.

Cody took in the scene quickly. She watched as he squinted at the prints, at Tubman’s triumphant grin, and turned to her without saying a word.

His face didn’t twitch but the light went out of his eyes as he looked at her. They were the eyes of a man who had lost it all.

4.

5:49
P.M.
, Tuesday, November 20

T
HE LIZARD
K
ING WATCHED AS
the lot lizard approached the Mack parked next to his. She tottered on her high heels and held her arms out for balance as if navigating a high wire. She’d be at his truck in five minutes, tops. Less if the driver refused. Because she was on the other side of the Mack at the driver’s door, he couldn’t see her.

He was barely breathing, and he felt himself becoming aroused. Not by her, but by what he was going to do to her.

The dome light went on in the cab of the Mack as the driver opened his door to answer the knock. The Lizard King could see the back of the Mack driver’s bald head and a dark crown of fuzz that wrapped from ear to ear in the back. The bald head nodded up and down. He was talking to her.

“Come on, buddy,” he whispered. “Do it or don’t. Quit fucking negotiating. Get out your forty bucks and stop trying to
make a deal.
”

The last three words came out in a shout.

The Mack cab light doused. He couldn’t see inside but he hadn’t seen her enter. The driver pulled the wrap-around cab curtain closed.

There were four kinds of sleeper cabs on the road, from the “coffin” type with a tiny twenty-four-inch bed accessible through a porthole-like hatch to the lavish studio sleepers that were practically camper trailers with wide beds, showers, sinks, and entertainment centers. Between the extremes were “condos” where the bed lifted to the ceiling to allow some headroom and “midroof” models where the bunk was on the bottom with storage compartments on top. The Lizard King preferred the midroof, but all of the designs were big enough to allow two people to cavort inside. Lot lizards didn’t need much space.

Then there she was, coming around the front of the Mack, her hand out on the grille of the truck for balance. The driver in the Mack had sent her away. She was shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe it. It was obviously a refusal from the driver. Maybe he’d said something, or gotten a quick free grope, he thought. She paused and quickly composed herself; smoothing her hair down on the sides and tugging at the hem of her skirt. Then she put on her game face and looked up and started toward his door as if nothing had happened.

The ten seconds it took for her to rap on his door seemed like an eternity. Then he heard it: three blows. These girls weren’t subtle, he thought.

He reached for the door handle with his left hand and cracked his door a few inches. With his right he reached down and touched the plastic grip on the stun gun with the tips of his fingers.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Are you looking for a little company tonight?” she asked. He could see one eye through the crack. Too much dark eyeliner, as usual. The collar of her coat was faux fur and it sparkled with flakes of snow.

“I am,” he said.

“Are you alone or do you have a partner, too?”

“Just me.”

“Then,” she said, drawing out the word, “why don’t you open your door and let me inside so we can party?” She gestured toward the slightly open door: “I’m skinny but I ain’t
this
skinny, dude.” Her laugh was rough—a cackle.

He shot a quick look through the windshield. No one appeared to be watching, but with those Bible-thumpers one never knew. He looked across. The driver in the Mack had apparently settled into his sleeper for the night. The Lizard King could see bands of light blue from a television under drawn curtains.

He opened the door and could see her in full. She was older than he’d hoped. Her eyes peered from dark hollows, like a raccoon. Her face was angular, emaciated, with a gash of bright red lipstick. She didn’t part her lips when she smiled up at him. Probably ashamed of her teeth, he thought. As he reached down for her hand she hesitated for a moment, looking up at him. She seemed taken aback by the white Tyvek jumpsuit, and when she saw his face she recoiled.

“Are you coming in or not?” he asked, annoyed.

Although she seemed to be reconsidering, she extended her hand. He grasped it and pulled her up into the cab. As she wriggled over and sat on his lap he shut the door and the dome light went out. He could feel her bony hips through his suit. There wasn’t much meat on her. And she could no doubt feel how hard he was beneath her.

“You’re ready for me, ain’t you, cowboy?” she said.

He grunted. Her coat and hair smelled of damp and stale cigarette smoke.

“So how do you like it, sugar?”

He said, “Rough.”

She froze, but before she could reply he reached up and plunged the twin prods of the stun gun into her bare neck beneath her jawbone. There was the angry snapping sound of electricity and she arched her back with more strength than he thought possible for a meth head.

He took the stun gun away and could smell burned flesh and hair in the cab as her body went limp. He roughly pushed her off him and she fell away and thumped on the bare metal floor at his feet.

Then, as he reached down to pull her back into the sleeper cab, she started to convulse. Her arms and legs jerked spasmodically and her head turned to show a gaping mouth. Teeth missing, he thought. He was right about her. He shrunk back, alarmed and angry.
What was happening
? One of her feet twitched so rapidly her shoe came off and bounced off the door. She’d struck back wildly with her fist and hit his ankle.