How had he missed it?
Now he had to figure out if this latest e-mail came from the girl or the imposter.
34
Back in Chief Redbone’s mildew-smelling office, Laura removed the top two photographs from the envelope Victor had FedExed her and spread them out on his desk beside the photograph of Jimmy de Seroux.
“Kind of looks like him,” Redbone said. “If you take away the mustache.” He was in the process of eating a slice of apple pie from a styrofoam box.
“I saw him myself. Playing piano at a bar in Bisbee.”
He sat back and folded his hands over his stomach. “That may be, but you’re not what Judge Lanier would call an impartial witness, and he’s who we gotta get around if we want a warrant.” He sighed and pushed the photo back across the table. “Sounds pretty circumstantial to me. Judge Lanier doesn’t like circumstantial evidence. Honestly, I don’t think he’s gonna bite.”
“The tire tracks outside his house are the same make and type as the ones found near the primary crime scene—Michelin XRVs.” She pushed the lab report that Victor had faxed along with the photos across the desk.
Redbone picked it up, holding it out in order to read it. “Says here it’s the same kind, but there must be millions of these things all over the country. There’s no anomaly to show these are the exact same tires.” He put his hands behind his head. “Lanier’s not going to like that.”
Laura had experience with recalcitrant judges. She always sought out the toughest judges because if they okayed a search warrant, the defense attorney would be left with one less piece of ammunition. “I’ll take my chances.”
The chief shook his head. “I can tell you right now he’ll dearly love tearing this apart. Lookie here, the dress—the link to that Alison Burns killing. How many people use those patterns? They’re on the Internet. And how many people could’ve downloaded this boy’s picture? He’s got it out there for everybody to see.”
He scooped up some melted ice cream, licked the plastic spoon.
“Nope,” he added morosely, “I don’t see Judge Lanier liking this at all.”
Judge Lanier had them in and out in ten minutes.
“He’s got a golf game at ten,” Chief Redbone explained as they were ushered out by the judge’s white-haired bailiff. “He sure as heck shot us down. I’m sorry about that.”
“Whatever happened to Southern hospitality?”
Redbone held the door open for her. “He’s a transplant from Rhode Island.”
Laura tried to think if she could have done anything different, but it had all happened so fast. Judge Lanier had said few words to them inside his stuffy, smoke-filled chamber, but the ones he did use were scathing. “A waste of the court’s time.” “A snipe hunt.” And: “I don’t know how you do it out in the southwest, Miss Criminal Investigator of the DP of S, but here we have laws and we have precedence. You will not turn this court into a Star Chamber. The de Serouxs have been through enough, and I will not permit this witch hunt.”
“What was that about the de Serouxs?” Laura asked Redbone as they walked down the steps of the courthouse.
Redbone said, “The Judge doesn’t like extra work, and this qualifies. He doesn’t want to come under any scrutiny. He just keeps a low profile so he’s retained every few years. Well,” he patted her arm, “I’ve got to be going. Gotta keep the streets safe for posterity.”
He got into his unit and drove sedately down Market Street. She saw him turn in the direction of the police department.
Laura realized he never answered her question.
Hungry, she walked up Market to the Cloud Nine Coffee Shop. Taking a red vinyl booth by the window, she pulled the photos of Jessica Parris, Alison Burns, and Linnet Sobek out of her briefcase and spread them out on the formica surface.
There had to be a way to get into that house. Her conviction was growing—this was the guy. She just had to look harder, find something she’d missed.
She stared at the photographs. All three girls looked alike. The same type. Similar hair length, if not style, same pert nose. A dusting of freckles. Innocent, wide blue eyes.
Jessica was the anomaly. Brown eyes. Light-boned, small for her age. Jessica was the mistake. The abduction of Jessica Parris was an act of impulse after de Seroux failed to get the girl he wanted.
The waitress appeared and upended a brown ceramic mug. “Coffee?” she asked.
Laura nodded. The blond waitress looked to be in her sixties. Laura was mesmerized by the woman’s upper eyelids, the color of purple grapes and almost as puffy, ending in eyelashes heavily lined in black. Her nameplate said “Marlee”.
She glanced at the photograph of Linnet Sobek. “I sure hope she landed someplace good.” She gave Laura a searching look. “You a reporter?”
“No.”
Laura just wanted to be left alone, but the waitress was friendly. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” the waitress added.
“I’m from Arizona.”
“Well, isn’t that a small world? I lived with my daughter and her husband in Phoenix up until a year or two ago. Where you say you were from?”
“Tucson.” She wished the woman would leave her alone to think.
“I grew up here, never wanted to leave, but my daughter wanted me to come live with her and I wanted to be near my grandchildren … now the kids are grown, and I just couldn’t stop being homesick for this little town. So I finally made a break and came on back. One thing I’ve got is really good feet, that plus stamina, so I figure I can work until I’m seventy at least. Plus, I like the work, being around people.”
Laura could appreciate that, but she just wanted to be left alone with her blue funk.
“What’ll it be? The biscuits and gravy are good.”
She remembered how when she was a kid she always ordered a BLT on white toast with a side of pickles. She hadn’t eaten white bread for years, but suddenly craved it. Must be the influence of the south.
The waitress pushed back a strand of brittle hair and said, “Sure thing, honey.” She whisked away with the menu and headed for the kitchen.
There was some kind of heating vent near the back wall and Laura could feel it on the back of her neck, steaming her clothes. The place looked none too clean either—a greasy spoon. Her dad loved greasy spoons. She’d forgotten about that.
Laura replaced the photographs of the girls with the picture of Jimmy de Seroux. Maybe she was wrong—what if it was Lehman?
She reached into the wooden bowl of dried olives in front of the table jukebox, suddenly starving, took one and bit. It wasn’t an olive—the thing was salty and kind of mushy. She had no idea what it was.
“Never had a boiled peanut before?” asked Marlee coming by with a fresh pot.
“Who’d want to boil peanuts?”
“You just keep on eating them, and sooner or later you’re gonna be addicted.” She set the plate with the BLT down on the table with a plastic click and glanced at the photograph of de Seroux. “You know Dale?”
“Dale?” Laura was confused.
“Dale Lundy. That’s got to be Bill Lundy’s son. What’s that say?” she added, craning her neck to see the writing on the bottom. “Best Wishes … Jimmy.”
Laura said, “Jimmy de Seroux.”
She frowned, as if she were trying to access something on her hard drive. “No. That just can’t be.”
“This is Jimmy de Seroux. He plays piano at the Gibson Inn.”
“No, that’s got to be Dale Lundy. He looks just like his daddy.”
Laura felt as if she’d just slipped down the rabbit hole. This woman obviously didn’t know what she was talking about. Everyone she’d talked to had assured her that this guy was Jimmy de Seroux. He’d signed his name Jimmy. It was Jimmy de Seroux. Laura reiterated that.