7
Jameson Walker expected more than a call to say I hadn’t found his daughter yet, but once I’d clued him in on the searches that McTeer and Velasquez were also conducting he settled down a bit. I told him to get some sleep and assured him I’d telephone him again the following morning. ‘Sleep? There’s little chance of that,’ he said. I knew how he felt.
I took a room at a Holiday Inn at Holbrook, my window giving me a great view of the endless mountain desert. It reminded me of when I’d chased the serial killer, Tubal Cain, to his Mojave hideaway in an ill-fated attempt at saving my little brother’s life. Before I’d arrived, Cain had already stripped the flesh from John’s back and had begun whittling away at his ribs. I stopped Cain but it hadn’t been enough to save John. My brother had died within three days; no one could have survived his injuries. I closed the blinds.
I’d purchased a sandwich and carry-out coffee from a nearby 7-Eleven, and made the most of both while studying the photographs of Jay and Nicole. I’d placed the missing person poster alongside them on the bed. It hadn’t struck me before but Nicole Challinor and Helena Blackstock were not unalike. They were both of a similar age, with tiny features apart from large, dark eyes. Both women wore their jet-black hair in bobs, though Nicole’s salon-styled cut was more refined. Helena appeared to have taken a pair of scissors to hers, trimming the hair at a point level with her jaw, probably out of a need for an easily maintained style. Nicole, I knew, was the kind who frequented the boutiques of Madison and Park Avenues in New York City, while Helena was a country girl. There wasn’t much call for a $400 hairdo when living in a trailer park. A telephone directory in a drawer in my room only had one listing for Blackstock, and had given me an address up near to Indian Wells, with the same number as on the poster. Her husband was called Scott.
Nicole and Helena’s likeness must be purely coincidental. I gave up on that line of thought, and switched my attention to Jay Walker. Cute name. Cute face. Her picture showed a young woman who looked as if she could handle herself. Not necessarily physically, but in an argument. Her mouth was turned up at one corner, and her eyes were focused on the lens, as if she was challenging the photographer. Without ever having met her, I took a shine to Jay. I found a self-assured woman attractive. My ex-wife Diane had known what she wanted, as had Kate Piers, a woman I’d fallen for before she was brutally snatched away from me by an assassin’s bullet. In the last few months I’d been seeing Kate’s sister, Imogen Ballard, after she’d proven that she too was tough and dependable. Some would find the women I’m attracted to an anomaly: after all, I was in the business of protecting those incapable of doing it for themselves.
‘Where are you, Jay?’
I wasn’t hoping for divine inspiration or a psychic moment or anything, the question had just come unbidden to my lips.
Looking into those vibrant eyes, I refused to believe that she was dead. There was too much life there to have been extinguished so easily. Of course, that was fanciful thinking at best, because it didn’t matter if she’d the determination of an Olympic athlete, she couldn’t outrun a bullet. If Jay and Nicole had been near that gas station when the robbers struck, then I didn’t hold out much hope of finding either of them alive. Whoever had killed the teller and the family had been both callous and meticulous. They intended covering their tracks and that would have included silencing all witnesses to their crime. If they’d murdered the women, the desert out there was immense; they could have concealed their corpses in any one of a million locations. The thing that wouldn’t be hidden so easily was the SUV the women were driving, and probably my best chance of finding Jay and Nicole was to concentrate on finding it. I hoped that Officer Lewin would come through on that.
My gaze skimmed back to Nicole’s and Helena’s photos.
Their likeness was troubling me and I didn’t know why.
Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was late, but not too late to call Helena’s husband. I used the phone in the room, hitting ‘9’ for an outside line, before carefully tapping in the number printed on the poster.
The phone rang and rang, and I was on the verge of hanging up when the receiver was finally lifted.
‘You know what time it is?’
‘I do, Mr Blackstock. It’s near midnight, but I think you’re going to want to hear what I’ve got to say.’
‘Who is this?’
‘My name’s Joe Hunter, I’m a private investigator—’
The phone was slammed down. I looked at the receiver, before carefully tapping in the number again.
This time the phone only rang once before Blackstock snatched up his handset. ‘Goddamnit! I’m sick of you parasites pimping for business. Why don’t you leave me alone and go chase after adulterers like you usually do?’
‘I’m not soliciting work,’ I said. ‘I’m engaged by another client whose daughter has gone missing along with a friend. I thought you’d talk to me about Helena’s disappearance.’
‘Other people’s business is no concern of mine. I’ve enough to contend with. Now, if you don’t mind, fuck off and leave me alone!’
Throwing caution to the wind, I said, ‘Helena is a dead ringer for one of the girls I’m looking for. I think there might be a connection.’
‘What do you mean a dead ringer?’ His words were challenging, as if I’d suggested that his wife was no longer unique and by that I was besmirching her memory.
‘I mean that Helena and Nicole look similar.’
‘What? Someone out there is taking women with a particular look?’
‘I could be totally off-track, Scott, but there could be a connection.’ I waited for him to absorb that. He was breathing harshly through his nose, short sharp blasts into the mouthpiece, still angry at my intrusion. ‘Then again, maybe not, but it’s an angle I want to investigate. It could be beneficial to the two of us to speak.’
‘How’s it going to benefit me? My wife’s probably dead.’
‘Your wife’s only missing,’ I corrected. ‘And you believe she’s still alive, otherwise you wouldn’t keep replacing the posters.’
‘You’ve been checking up on me? Stick to your own case, asshole.’
‘I’m only asking for half an hour of your time. What harm could it do? I can come up to your place.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not interested, that’s why. Don’t come near my house and don’t call again.’
Scott Blackstock slammed down the phone.
‘Arsehole,’ I growled.
The axiom that someone who protests too loudly usually has something to hide rang true. I looked again at the address of the trailer park that I’d scribbled on the back of the poster, and then left the room, thinking I could pick up a map of the local area at the 7-Eleven. I wanted a refill on my coffee, anyway. The caffeine hit would make it difficult to sleep, but I doubted my mind would settle enough for that. I was buzzing, wanting to get going. Scott Blackstock was as good a starting point as any, and, whether he liked it or not, he was going to be paid a visit.
I walked through Holbrook, my boot heels making soft ‘chucking’ sounds on the pavement. It was cooler now, but some of the stored-up sunlight made the sidewalk reluctant to release the rubber of my soles. Traffic was light, and there weren’t that many pedestrians either. Nevertheless, the 7-Eleven beckoned me forward with welcoming lights. I took it that the sign above the door didn’t mean too much, and as long as there were customers the doors would stay open. Outside the store were newspaper boxes where you could feed coins in a slot and take a newspaper without having to go inside to pay. I wouldn’t normally bother to grab a paper, but something caught my eye. Though it was the best part of three days since the terrible incident at the gas station, it was still making news.