Joanna looked at him as though she couldn’t quite decipher what he was saying. “You mean you were talking about me to him because you like me?”
“What else?” Butch exploded. “What’s not to like? Now, are you going to tell me what’s happening with Jenny, or not?”
And so she told him. In the middle of telling the story, the phone at the end of the bar rang. Joanna held her breath when the bartender said the call was for her.
“Yes?” she said hopefully, when she heard Carol Strong’s voice.
“Nothing so far,” Carol answered. “We’ve gone over the whole house. The dogs are out searching the yard right now. We haven’t found his car yet, but we’re looking.”
Joanna took a deep breath and let the words soak in. “I’ve got to know, Carol. You told me on the phone that you had him. What did you mean?”
“I talked to Serena’s attorney. I was reading over that thing Butch Dixon wrote for you, the part about Serena’s attorney swearing out a restraining order. Madeline Bellerman is a junior attorney for a very big-time firm here in Peoria—Howard, Howard and Rock. For the first time, I found my-self asking how Serena Grijalva came to have such a gold-plated attorney representing her in the no-contact-order department. It’s Thanksgiving weekend, and I had to track Madeline down at a ski lodge in Lake Tahoe. Larry Dysart was a process server. He did some work for Madeline. He talked her into doing Serena’s restraining order on a pro bono basis. Turns out he also served divorce papers on Dean Norton.”
Carol paused for breath. “I finally figured it out. He only targeted women for murder when he thought he could get away with it because—”
“Because there was someone else to blame,” Joanna finished.
“I’m sorry to say,” Carol Strong added, “he sucked me right in.”
When Joanna put down the phone, Butch Dixon was anxiously watching her face. “Anything?” he, asked.
“Not yet,” she returned.
Joanna resumed her seat on the stool. By then Butch had ordered her a diet Coke, which she accepted with good grace. With Jenny in danger, Joanna was surprised she could drink a soda or sit still or even talk. It was as though she existed—living and breathing—in a little vacuum of normalcy, one that Butch Dixon somehow helped make possible.
When she came back from the telephone, he didn’t say anything for a long time. He seemed to be lost in thought. “While you were gone,” he said, “I was sitting here thinking. I just remembered something. Larry Dysart didn’t stop drinking booze until just a few months ago. And sometimes, when he used to be on the sauce, he’d get off on a big nonstop talking kick. One time he was telling me about what a crazy bastard old Tommy Tompkins was. I always figured that was the pot calling the kettle black.
“But anyway, he was talking about this bomb shelter Tommy used to have. It was supposed to be a big secret, because when Armageddon came, Tommy didn’t want too many people knowing about it. I’ll bet it’s still there. You don’t suppose ...”
Joanna was already on her way to track down Sergeant Rodriquez. “Get hold of Detective Strong,” Joanna told him. “Tell her they’re looking in the wrong place.”
Moments later, the phone rang at the end of the bar. Joanna answered it herself.
“Where?” was Carol Strong’s one-word question.
“Somewhere on the APOA campus,” Joanna answered. “My best guess is you’re looking for a bomb shelter.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was almost 8 P.M. when the Search and Rescue dogs picked up a trail that led to a man-hole just off the railroad right-of-way. The manhole was labeled UTILITIES, with no specification as to what kind of utilities might be involved. Inside were conduit runs and circuit-breaker boxes—all of which proved to be dummies.
The girls’ trail led down the ladder and through a concrete tunnel to what was, ostensibly, a dead end. Carol Strong had Butch Dixon and Joanna brought to the scene while a lock technician tried to solve the problem of how the trail the dogs had followed down the tunnel could pass through what appeared to be a solid concrete wall.
“They’re in there,” Carol told an anxious Joanna once she was standing near the head of the line of people at the far end of the tunnel. “I don’t know if they’re both there, and I don’t know if they’re all right,” Carol continued. “All I do know for sure is that when we tap on the wall, somebody taps back.”
Joanna felt her knees go weak with relief, but it was another half hour before the locksmith discovered the release mechanism. With a creaking groan, the seemingly massive wall slid aside, moving smoothly on well-oiled rollers. At once, seven separate flashlights probed the darkness beyond the opening.
Jennifer Brady, wearing the same clothes she had worn that morning, stood illumined in the glow of lights, both hands on her hips. Blinking in the sudden glare, she tumbled out of the darkness with Ceci Grijalva right on her heels. Tears of joy coursed down Joanna’s face as she gathered both girls into her arms.
After enduring her mother’s fierce hug for as long as she was willing, Jenny pushed away. “Mommy,” she said accusingly. “It was dark in there. What took you so long?”
A jubilant Butch Dixon let out a yip that was a cross between a rodeo rider’s triumphant Yippee and a fairly respectable imitation of a coyote’s yip.
“Who’s that?” Jenny asked, peering up at him. “And what happened to his hair?”
“That’s Butch Dixon,” Joanna said. “He’s a friend of mine. It’s because of him that we found you as soon as we did. And as far as his hair is concerned, it all fell out because his grandmother gave him a permanent when he was a little boy.”
Jenny’s eyes widened. “No! Is that true?”
Butch Dixon grinned. “If your mother says so,” he told her, “then it must be.”
Epilogue
Butch Dixon hosted the celebration dinner that night. All the cops and FBI agents who could be corralled into doing so came to the Roundhouse Bar and Grill for freebie dinners, which included Caboose dishes of ice cream, peanuts, and chocolate syrup all the way around.
The party lasted until well after midnight. The Duffys had long since taken Pablo and Ceci and headed for home. Joanna and the Bradys were about to do the same with Jenny when a drained Carol Strong limped into the restaurant carrying her signature high heels, one of which was sheared off under the sole. The lighting in the bar wasn’t the best, but even in its dim glow, Joanna was surprised by the haggard expression on the detective’s face.
“What’s wrong?” Joanna asked when Carol sat down beside her. “You look awful.”
“You would, too, if you’d just been through what I’ve been through.”
“What?”
“We discovered Larry Dysart had closed off all the air ducts to the bomb shelter,” Carol answered. “I don’t know exactly how long the girls would have lasted before they ran out of air, but it wouldn’t have been forever. It’s a good thing we found them when we did.”
“Oh,” Joanna said. It was all she could manage.
“And we found a jewelry box,” Carol continued. “A jewelry box that he evidently used as a trophy case. It had nine pairs of panties in it. Eight officially, because I didn’t catalog this one.”
Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a pair of nylon panties and placed them in Joanna’s hands. “Mine?” Joanna asked without looking.
Carol nodded. “You said it was part of a set your husband gave you. If I had listed them in the official evidence inventory, you never would have seen them again. Put them away fast before anybody else sees them,” Carol ordered. “That FBI agent, LaDonna Bright, and I are the only ones who know about them so far. I want to keep it that way.”