“I heard you were looking for a saxophone player? My sister dated a guy who played the sax. I heard he lived on the Gulch, so I asked around and I found him. Name’s Jeeter.”
“Jeeter who?”
“Just Jeeter.”
Through the window Laura saw Buddy Holland and Officer Duffy approaching from the parking lot. Duffy looked pissed. Laura got the impression that was a permanent condition.
As Buddy approached the window, he ducked his head to look in at her. No, not at her. He was looking at himself.
“Jeeter doesn’t have a last name?” Laura asked Noone.
“Apparently not, ma’am.” He looked chastened, as if Jeeter’s not having a last name was a reflection on him.
“What’s Jeeter’s story?” she asked.
“Guess you could say he’s a night owl. Itinerant musician, takes up the slack with odd jobs.”
Laura glanced at Buddy Holland’s desk, at a faded but eye-catching photo of Buddy, a woman, and a little girl posing in front of Old Faithful at Yellowstone. “Did Jeeter happen to look out his window?” Laura asked Noone.
“As a matter of fact he did. He likes to sit next to an open window when he plays. Feel the night air.”
“Great for his neighbors. Did he see anything?”
His broad handsome face lit up—what he had been building up to. “He saw a motor home.” He consulted his memo pad. “He noticed it for a couple of reasons. Almost nobody drives down the Gulch in the wee hours of the morning. And this motor home went up and back on the Gulch twice.”
“What time was that?”
“Between two and three.”
“Did he notice anything else?”
“Just that it went slow. He wasn’t thinking make, size, anything—just noticed it driving down the street a couple of times. Here’s his number.” He handed her a While You Were Out slip, the name Jeeter, his phone number and address neatly printed on it.
He lingered.
“Yes?” Wishing he would go so she could think.
“If there’s anything else I can do—“
She glanced at her watch, thinking she should get out to see the Parris family soon or she’d have to wait until early afternoon—and that would be cutting it close. She was meeting the owner of the Cooger & Dark shop at eleven and the autopsy in Sierra Vista was at four. She looked at Noone. “As a matter of fact there is something you can do. I want you to look up motor homes—you can do it on the Internet. Go back at least fifteen years and get a representative sample. Go show them to Jeeter and see if anything jogs his memory.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that right now.”
“When does your shift end?”
“Three o’clock, but—“
“You’d better ask your sergeant if he can spare you; otherwise, it will have to wait.”
After he was gone, she thought about the motor home. Saw it in her mind’s eye, cruising down the Gulch in the early hours of the morning.
It made sense. A motor home was an ideal vehicle for a sexual predator. Portable, self-contained, window shades so no one could see in.
She glanced at Buddy Holland’s desk. He must have come in and gone again while she was talking to Noone. She powered down her computer and went looking for him, catching Officer Danehill at the coffee urn, which had been set up outside the bathroom. “Have you seen Buddy?”
“Buddy? He just left.”
Laura decided that could be a good thing. She doubted Buddy would be a help and might be a hindrance. She headed up canyon to see Jessica’s parents.
David and Linda Parris lived on West Boulevard, the last house before vacant land. Three hundred yards up, West Boulevard bottomed out in a hairpin turn before slanting up the mountain. According to Laura’s map, this road, old Route 80, switchbacked up to the top and then down again to connect up with the main highway on the other side of Mule Pass.
On the left side of the road just before the hairpin turn were a couple of houses. It might be worth talking to the owners of those houses, to find out if they saw anything. She’d do that after her interview with the family.
It was going on nine in the morning. She’d debated calling first, but decided it was better to just show up. In her job, Laura always looked for the upper hand with everyone—victim or perpetrator—so she could get a better read on the personalities involved.
The Parris house, a craftsman bungalow, had a three-foot-high base of dark volcanic rock with red brick above that. The porch, windows, and doors were painted white. A picket fence flickered in and out of the shadow of a massive sycamore tree, and an American flag hung dispiritedly from the porch roof. Blinds in the front windows were shut tight.
The day was steamy after the rain and the sun blindingly bright. Laura was grateful for the shade of the porch. She used the deer-head knocker, preparing herself.
No answer. A breeze shuttled a few oak leaves across the floorboards. She knocked again, scanning the street while she waited, then tried the doorbell.
“They’re out.”
Laura looked up and saw a bare-chested man watering his plants next door. Was this the neighbor Victor had told her about?
“You with the police department?” he asked.
“Laura Cardinal, Department of Public Safety.” She held her wallet badge up for him to see and approached the fence.
She studied him as he looked at her badge: Five-feet-nine, average build, tattoos on his arms, head like a bullet. Intense eyes.
He shook her hand over the fence. A grip like a mountain climber. “Chuck Lehman.”
“Do you know where they went?”
“Dave mentioned making funeral arrangements yesterday, so I’m guessing they’re at the funeral home. You just missed them.”
Laura tried not to show her disappointment. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
He picked up the hose and started watering again. “Sure, go ahead.”
“Did you notice Jessica coming home from school day before yesterday?”
“Nope. I was in the back room on the computer. Stock trading.”
“You didn’t hear anything, see anything? Maybe earlier? A car you didn’t recognize, maybe going slow? Someone hanging around?”
She was plowing old ground; Victor had already asked him questions like this, but she wanted to hear his answers for herself.
Chuck Lehman was willing. He gave her a thumbnail sketch of the family (father, authoritarian; mother, a pretty doormat; boyfriend, probably will end up being gay; Jessica, a “cute kid”; younger brother, a little shit). He pondered at length how her agency could use its resources to better advantage, they needed to get the media involved “on a national level”, put up roadblocks. “You don’t even have the Amber Alert.”
“You sound like you’re in law enforcement.”
“Me? No. I’m a carpenter.” He touched his forehead. “But I have good powers of observation.”
She noticed the tautness in his face, the slight trembling in his body—he seemed to be on an adrenaline high. Was he excited about being included, or covering up something?
“Did you talk to Jessica much?”
“Me? No.” He waved at the air vaguely. “Hardly ever saw her.” Mister Amiable, suddenly closing up.
“You know of any of her friends I could talk to?”
“How would I know that? If you haven’t noticed, I’m a big kid.” Confident smile.
“All the days she’s walked home from school, nobody, nothing stuck out in your mind?”
“I don’t notice who comes and goes. They’re just kids.”
He seemed increasingly uncomfortable. It occurred to her that he could be hiding an interest in young girls.
Something not right about him. She remembered what Buddy Holland had said, that CRZYGRL12 could be an e-mail address or a chat room name. She lowered her voice, her inflection friendly: You and me in his together. “You said you have a computer. Do you know anyone with the e-mail address CRZYGRL12?”
He blinked. “What?”
“CRZYGRL12? Maybe Jessica’s e-mail? You wouldn’t know if she had a computer, would you?”