From his place near Richie Lockhart’s desk, Galaz looked up disapprovingly.
“You know about him? That was his nickname, Mickey. Thought from the very beginning he was lying to me.”
WATCH AND WAIT
Musicman glanced at his fuel gauge—almost empty. He had been parked among the big trucks outside the Crown Paper Company for an hour, keeping an eye on the warehouse at the corner of 17th and Fremont, running the engine to keep cool. He’d have to do something soon, though. Waiting on 100-degree heat, no shade in sight, wasn’t an option. He supposed he could go get more gas. But what if they left while he was gone?
To Musicman’s surprise, the white van hadn’t gone far. The guy driving didn’t care that Musicman was on his tail. He drove sedately down the old Benson Highway, took Park Avenue north, and turned into the manufacturing district near the railroad tracks. Musicman watched as the man unlocked the gate to a tall, chain link fence topped by razor wire. A derelict brick warehouse, the Chiricahua Paint Company, rotted in the sun beyond the fence. Once in the parking lot, the man drove around the back and out of view. Since the road Musicman was on dead-ended, he had to turn before he reached the entrance. And so he drove around the block, trying to think what to do. By the time he came around again, he saw them at the side of the building, a big man holding Summer’s arm, the man opening the door and ushering her inside.
Dark Moondancer.
The GEO was shaking from the air conditioner. He needed to do something, but what?
He did have options. He could make an anonymous call to the police and let them rescue her.
But he didn’t want to give Summer up. She had the potential to be The One, and he could not let her go without a fight. The best thing to do was retreat and think about this. Wait until dark, when at least he’d have a chance to sneak up on them.
He only hoped she’d be alive by then.
54
Laura jotted down the words Julie Marr, A&B towing, Dark Moondancer, and Mickey Harmon.
Mickey Harmon worked for Dynever Security, Jay Ramsey’s Internet security company. Jay had mentioned they’d grown up together. Jay might know something, either about Dark Moondancer or about Barry Fruchtendler’s suspicions.
She called the Ramsey house and got Freddy, who gave her his number at Dynever Security.
“I heard about that girl,” Jay said when he answered. “If I can help in any way …”
“Maybe you can,” she said. “You know Mickey Harmon pretty well?”
“We’ve been friends since we were in fifth grade.”
“Did you ever play a game called Dark Moondancer?”
“Dark Moondancer?”
“It was a role-playing game.”
“I know what Dark Moondancer is.” It was not her imagination; his voice sounded strained. “What’s this about Mickey?”
“Were you aware that the police considered him a suspect in the Julie Marr abduction?”
“Oh that.” He sounded relieved. “For a while there, they really went after him. But Mickey wouldn’t—“
She waited.
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Do you mind if I call you back? I’ve got someone in my office.”
“Sure,” she said, but he’d already hung up.
Thinking he sounded spooked and wondering why.
Galaz caught her eye. She waved at him and held up the evidence list, pantomiming that she’d get to it now.
When she took the list over to Galaz, he and Richie Lockhart were laughing about something.
“What’s so funny?”
Galaz said, “You missed all the excitement around here.”
“Excitement?”
“While you were in Florida. Victor got a message from his mistress. Her plumbing went crazy and she was knee-deep in water, panicked that the water was almost up to her mattress.”
“You remember the mattress he bought?” Richie said. “Top of the line, twenty-five hundred dollars?”
Galaz said, “He took out of here like a bat out of hell.”
“When was this?”
“Couple days ago. Richie swears he took the message down right.”
Richie looked at her, wide eyes innocent. “My español isn’t that good, but I thought that was what she said.”
Galaz said, “You should’ve seen Victor when he got back. He was running around the squad bay screaming for Richie’s blood.”
Laura’s cell phone vibrated. She sneaked a look at the number flashing on the screen: Jay Ramsey.
“Jay?” she said, turning her back so she could hear.
“We need to talk,” Ramsey said. He sounded as if he were speaking from the bottom of a well. “I’ll be done here in an hour and a half. Why don’t I meet you at the farm in two hours. Say, six thirty? I’ll leave the gate open.”
“Six thirty, I’ll be there.”
He hung up.
That strange quality to his voice.
“What was that?” Galaz asked, his voice hopeful. “A break?”
“Nope,” Laura said. “No break.”
She stopped by the auto body shop to see how the lab techs were doing with the motor home. They were in the process of carrying out bags of evidence. There would be a lot to comb through.
Victor had gone to track down two private parties who sold white GEOs in the last week, and Buddy was about to leave. He pulled out behind her, but she lost sight of him when she headed in the direction of mid-town. She decided to stop by Mickey Harmon’s house and see if she could catch him off-guard.
Harmon lived on a quiet street in the Sam Hughes neighborhood. His house was a Spanish eclectic mansion—arched colonnades, red-tiled roof, stately palms and a lush desert garden which she could see through the gates set into the high stucco wall.
The security business must be booming. She rang the buzzer at the gate, but nothing happened.
She debated whether to go back to DPS or straight to Jay Ramsey’s house. She had a little over an hour before they were due to meet—too short a window to get anything done at DPS and get back out to mid-town. So she drove the few miles to Alamo Farm.
Unlike Harmon’s place, Ramsey’s gate was open. Maybe Jay had made it home early.
As she drove onto the property, the slanting sun poked holes through the windbreak of walnut and mesquite trees, throwing shadows on the lane like a bar code. She turned left on the lane leading to the house, driving into the sun. Dust from her car tires seemed to buzz in the air as sun and shade flickered across her eyeballs. The windshield gleamed gold and brown, like tortoiseshell.
A black SUV turned onto the lane from between the two eucalyptus trees marking the entrance to the Ramsey house. Funny. It looked like Mike Galaz’s take-home vehicle.
He stopped and she stopped, window to window. “If you’re looking for Jay,” Galaz said, “He’s not home.”
“I’m meeting him here at six thirty.”
“Have you talked to Mickey yet?”
“No.”
“Two minds with a single thought,” Galaz said. “Jay knows Mickey a lot better than I do—it occurred to me he could give us some insight.”
“Same here.” Laura stifled her resentment. She hated the idea of him micromanaging her case.
“You want me to come back with you and wait?”
“That’s not—“
“Let me turn around, okay?”
She put the 4Runner in gear and drove on without waiting for him to catch up. Why was Galaz so interested? Was it because he was so close to Jay Ramsey and Mickey Harmon? She knew Ramsey was influential in raising money for Galaz’s campaign for mayor. Maybe he was here for damage control.
She turned off at Ramsey’s house, Galaz on her tail. Trees cast long shadows across the dirt clearing, the hard-packed ground reddish gold in the dying light. No cars. Laura knocked on the door anyway, wasn’t surprised when she got no answer. Cold air leaked through the screen door as she peered in. Nobody home?