He groaned-a long, low, heartsick sound. "Then… you say the body… disappeared?"
"Where did you take her?"
"Was she white?"
"Where did you take her?"
His voice suddenly accelerated into one long run-on sentence, a stuttering river of syllables. "I didn't d-d-d-do her I’ve got no i-i-idea who would kill a w-white w-woman my q quest is not for that I have been c-c-copied and m-m-mocked and I forbid you to w-w-write this in the papers I do not white!"
I listened to his rapid breathing.
"I believe you," I said.
"Ohhh…" He sighed, relief draining out of his voice and into my ear. "Ohhh…"
"Let me give you my number for the car phone."
"I have it," he said almost meekly.
"Where will your 'dramatic statement' take place?"
A long pause ensued. I could hear him breathing more slowly now.
"You need me," he whispered, and hung up.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I had never in my life seen more activity or confusion at the Sheriff's Department than I did an hour and a half later, just before nine that morning, when I was finally admitted to the inner sanctum of Sheriff Dan Winters's office, in which loomed the sweating, nervous figures of Winters, Martin Parish, and Erik Wald.
Of course, in the middle of our heat wave, the county building's air conditioning had overloaded and failed. Being a modern building, it had few windows that would even open. Outside, the smog lingered like smoke. Inside, the air was already stale and hot.
Waiting, I heard the phones ringing constantly, saw the double-time scurry of deputies and clerical workers, studied the drawn, tight-lipped faces on the officers who came and went in. a steady stream from Winters's lair. The mayor of the city of Orange and one of our county supervisors made what appeared to be abrupt and pointless appearances, then marched straight for the pressroom. I followed, to find Karen Schultz besieged and took for myself a dozen angry stares from the media a print people who had been treated, just a few hours earlier, to my rather major scoop. Channel 5 tried to interview me, but I walked away when the reporter excused herself to the lady room for a quick makeup check. Karen brushed me with an icy glance as I closed the door behind me.
But inside the sheriff's office, Winters, Parish, and Wald had the aura of the chosen. I could feel the energy in the hot room, the energy of organization and execution, of order method, purpose. And beneath that energy lay another: that the chaos and mayhem which had brought these men together, the silent and permeating force of their antagonist, the Midnight Eye.
Winters slammed down the telephone and looked at me "We don't have much time. First, forget Dina. The story now is, we're deputizing the entire county, calling on every citizen watch out for each other and report back to us anything they might see, hear, smell, or dream that will help us get this guy. We've called it the Citizens' Task Force, and Wald is in charge as sheriff-adjutant. We're setting up phone banks, printing shirts and caps, trying to get everybody involved. Interview Wald about it. If you can't make it interesting and get us good play, we'll find someone who can. Second, you can get the ME's stuff; through Karen but not without Karen. She'll edit out what we need for ourselves. Third, we've already got a damn miracle-Wynn's next-door neighbor was shooting video of her family the day before they bought it, and we've got a suspect right there on the fucking tape. Kimmy Wynn ID'd him as positively as a kid half in shock can ID anybody, but it's a damn good start. Documents is isolating a still we'll have within the hour, and every paper and TV station that wants one will get it. Your part is to get this Task Force idea off the ground. Your part is to make us look good. We're asking for help, Russell. We're begging for it."
Wald, standing by a window, looked at me.
"Think you can handle that?" asked Parish.
"You forgot point number four," I said to Winters, ignoring
Marty.
"Four what? What the hell are you-"
"He called. The Midnight Eye. I just talked to him."
A pressured silence fell over the room, as if a gun had just been cocked.
"I'm liking this," said Wald evenly.
Parish regarded me with his slightly droop-lidded stare.
"Yes!" shouted Winters, driving a fist into the air. "What'd the son of a bitch say? Are you sure it was him? Any idea at all where he's calling from?"
I told them everything we said, except our exchange about the murder of Amber.
"Dramatic statement," muttered Winters. "Goddamned animal. Erik, you're the psychobabbler here-what's your call?"
Wald crossed the room and stood in front of Winters. "Look at it this way, what would you do if you wanted twenty bucks from me?"
"I'd say, 'Give me a twenty,'" Winters snapped.
"And I'd say, 'Sure,"' said Wald, slipping out his wallet, which he dangled before Winters, showing him the Sheriff's Department Volunteer badge lodged inside. "You're busted, Dan. That's how we play him. Give him what he wants. Play along. Give him enough rope to hang himself."
"Horseshit," said Parish. His face had reddened. "We can dink around with this guy all we want and not get any closer. I say put a CNI intercept on Russell's phone, keep SWAT ready, and hope for the best. When the picture hits the papers, we'll have the whole county waiting for him to show his face wouldn't negotiate squat with this scumsucker, or give him one inch of ink. We'll look like idiots."
Winters smiled and nodded, then looked at me. "Monroe, you're his dial-a-date, what do you think?"
"Play him," I said. "I'm with Wald. The intercept is a bad idea-he assumes we'll do it. Why not build up some trust, keep him comfortable, talking? If he wants to know what Erik is doing, we might be able to work that. He wants me as a mouthpiece. I can stall him, question him, maybe even guide him."
"Yeah, right," said Parish.
"He is right," said Wald. "As long as he wants something from us, we should listen."
"Goddamn classroom bullshit again, Erik."
Wald smiled. "I didn't see you getting any closer to Cary Clough. If I remember right, you were trying to make latents left by a maid while Clough was sitting outside Madeline Stewart’s art's house with a ski cap, a pair of latex gloves, and hard-on: Get real, Marty. The twentieth century has actually arrived."
The phone rang. Winters said, "Yeah," "No," and "Get your butt up here," then punched the intercom button and to his secretary to hold all calls for ten minutes. "This is the deal he said. "We go with the CNI intercept, but we keep the communication open. Carfax can rig one he won't be able to hear-he's a magician. We'll work him like Wald says. Erik, you'll need to coach Russell here on what to say-the last thing we want to do is set him off. Keep him hungry for what we can give him. Don't give him too much. Racial fucking cleansing. Man, I came to Orange County to get away from that shit. Martin, I know you'd trade a thousand words for one good fingerprint, and Chet Singer's working his ass off on the physical right now. We'll have a picture of him in the papers by this afternoon. Keep your leashes on.
"Winters's eyes went to the knock on his door. "Get in here!"
A disheveled Karen Schultz burst in with a large envelope, from which she pulled a stack of eight-by-ten glossies. "Lopez in Documents says it's the best he can get," she said.
The photographs, mined from the neighbor's home video, depicted varying enlargements of a bearded Caucasian man behind the wheel of a Ford Taurus. In three of the shots he was looking at the camera; the others had him in profile, face to the road. The color was poor, but the car was clearly white, the man's shirt almost certainly red flannel rolled at the sleeves, and his hair and beard-which met and blended with the interior shadows of the car-were a chaotic mass of red-brown. Sunglasses hid his eyes. His left arm, dangling from the open window, was thick. His stubby fingers, ringless, were spread against the side panel.