Mrs. Parris frowned. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him for a while.”
“Since Jessica was missing?”
“I’m not …” She didn’t finish her thought.
“You don’t know when he was here last?”
“He comes and goes. He has an uncle in Tucson—sometimes he stays there weeks at a time, especially after—“ she stopped. Her eyes widened slightly.
“After what?”
“After a fight.” Linda Parris looked past Laura, out the window.
Laura took note of the present tense and decided to stick with it. “With Jessica? Do they fight a lot?”
“No, no, nothing like what you’re thinking. Just arguments. Jessica can be—she could get dramatic. Cary just stayed out of her way, let her cool down. That’s all it was.”
“When was their last fight?”
“I know they weren’t talking earlier in the week.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“It’s not like that. David and I would never bring someone into our home that we thought would be dangerous to our daughter.”
“Mrs. Parris, I have to know. When was the last time you saw him?”
“I think it was … two, three days ago. But it’s not what you think. He keeps to himself a lot, likes to go for long walks. Sometimes he stays with friends. That’s what Jessica loves most about him, even though it drove her crazy sometimes. She said he was a free spirit. I know what you’re hinting at and you’re wrong. We would never put our own daughter in danger.”
“I understand that, but it’s important I talk to him. It’s very likely he doesn’t know Jessica is gone. Don’t you agree he should know?”
She nodded reluctantly. Laura asked for the uncle’s address and phone number, and Linda Parris found it in her address book and copied it on paper from the memo pad stuck to the refrigerator, a flag at the top above the phrase “United We Stand”.
Linda moved back to the sink and carefully washed the mixing bowl and set it in the dishwasher. She stared out the window again. “We had so many good times. Last Saturday we spent the morning weeding. Jessie and her dad went to the Arctic Circle for hamburgers. She got mine with mustard, but not ketchup—she knew I didn’t like ketchup. That was a great day.”
She continued to stare out the window.
Something brushed Laura’s ankles. She looked down. A Siamese cat rubbed against her trouser legs.
Laura was attracted to animals the way some people were attracted to babies. She hunkered down and stroked the cat.
“That’s Princess, Jessie’s cat,” Linda Parris’s voice broke. “Jessie found her in a dumpster at the school. Half-starved, sick. Her father told her Princess was her responsibility—she couldn’t keep her unless she did everything. Feed her, clean the cat box, use her allowance to get her spayed …” She was rambling.
The cat climbed up into Laura’s arms and onto her shoulder. It felt natural to Laura; the small vibrating body, the warmth. Comforting.
Holding the cat, she thought of Jessica. Jessica, who liked Josh Hartnett and Nelly. Jessica, who took such good care of her cat. Something crumbled in her chest, and tears pricked the corner of her eyes.
She turned away so the mother couldn’t see and set the cat down.
As Laura left through the front door, she glanced up the street at the roped-off area where the turnouts were. Officer Noone stood in the road, hands on his waist above his heavy duty belt, the yellow crime scene tape quivering behind him. When he saw her he waved. If he was bored by his new duty— waiting for the tire cast to dry—he didn’t show it.
Buddy appeared from around the corner of the house, where David Parris, Jessica’s father, was hammering away at something.
Buddy nodded toward Noone. “You about done up there?”
“Might be another half hour. How’s Mr. Parris?”
“Wouldn’t talk to me. We put up three sections of rain gutter, though.”
“Wouldn’t talk at all?”
“The only thing he said was, if Cary Statler ever showed his face around here again, he’d kill him.”
As Laura reached the turnout, Noone said, “They’re almost dry.”
Beside the metal-framed cast lay a couple of sticks, all that was left of a sampling of twigs, grass, and debris Laura had instructed Noone to collect from around the site. These Laura had used to reinforce the plaster. Not only would it make the cast stronger, but it would also supply a soil and debris sample for the crime lab. Laura picked up a stout twig and wrote her initials onto the cast, along with the case number.
“I never saw anyone take a tire cast before. It’s pretty interesting,” Noone offered. “Too bad there weren’t any footprints.”
It was clear Officer Noone had made the leap from the motor home sighting on Brewery Gulch to the abduction of Jessica Parris on West Boulevard, concluding that the killer had used a motor home.
“These tracks could belong to anyone. I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.”
“But it could be his.”
“Could be.” Emphasis on the could.
12
To business.
Musicman wrote: “D—Your shipment has come in.”
Immediately, a reply popped up.
DARK MOONDANCER: Hello, friend.
Musicman’s fingers flew over the keys.
MUSICMAN: I have that special order you requested.
DARK MOONDANCER: Same price?
MUSICMAN: Two thousand more.
DARK MOONDANCER: Verification?
MUSICMAN: Turn on the local news.
DARK MOONDANCER: That one? You’re in my jurisdiction! Let’s meet.
MUSICMAN: I never meet my clientele. It’s not good to mix business with pleasure.
DARK MOONDANCER: You do it all the time, mix business with pleasure. LOL. But seriously, we are an exclusive club, you and I. Please come visit. Bring a friend.
MUSICMAN: My plans are fluid at the moment.
DARK MOONDANCER: Fluid? There’s a pun. So you are still here. I would have thought you’d be a thousand miles away by now.
MUSICMAN: Parting is such sweet sorrow.
DARK MOONDANCER: Don’t be cryptic. I’d love to know what’s going on in your mind.
MUSICMAN: Shall I make the shipment or not?
DARK MOONDANCER: By all means. As before, payment is forthcoming. But if you’re planning an extended stay, do give serious thought to my invitation. You might not come this way again.
Musicman thought: We have less in common than you think.
Dark Moondancer’s desires were base, his enthusiasm clumsy. He didn’t get the subtle distinctions; he was just another cretin saturated with blood lust, looking for a vicarious thrill. The guy reminded him of a comic book character—way over the top.
Still, he paid the bills.
Musicman pulled up the photograph he intended to use: baby ducks following their mother across a lawn. Beautiful, the play of sunlight and shadow on their soft yellow down. So innocent. And yet beneath the surface resided a dark secret.
A secret that, truth to tell, shamed him.
He wouldn’t do it if he didn’t need the money. So far he’d ignored Dark Moondancer’s hints about escalating the violence—it just wasn’t his way. Even with this one—who’d made him so fucking angry!—he’d stopped short of fulfilling Dark Moondancer’s requests. Partly because he didn’t like the sight of blood (although he’d proven that he could deal with it if he had to), and partly because he didn’t like Dark Moondancer or anybody else calling the shots.
This was his show.
Musicman knew, though, that Dark Moondancer was getting impatient. The gravy train wouldn’t last forever.
Utilizing a user-friendly software program he had downloaded from the Internet, Musicman embedded the first photo into the picture of the baby ducks. He pulled up another scenic from his photo library—boats in a marina.