Clean Burn (19 page)

My nightmare
du jour
was a reworked version of my flashback the day before at the old homestead. Daddy on the sofa, his cigarette hanging from his mouth. Him yelling for a beer, me, dutifully toddling off to what passed for a kitchen in our house to fish one out of the cooler. My careful passage back, eyes fixed on the floor and the obstacle course of crap Daddy had left there.

I tripped, stumbled, spilled the beer. Daddy grabbed my arm, plucked the cigarette from his mouth. He lowered the tip to my arm. The familiar nightmare barely raised my heart rate.

Until I looked up at Daddy and saw his wicked face morphing, changing into Tommy Phillips’s. Tommy pressed the glowing cigarette to my skin, grinning and wild-eyed, the sweet boy transformed into an avenging evil.

I must have screamed; next thing I knew I was bolt upright in bed and Ken was barging into Cassie’s room, lit by moonlight, bare-chested in boxers. For a moment, I didn’t know him, my addled brain turning him into my monster of a father. I screamed again, then felt like a right idiot when I came to my senses.

I struggled to breathe. “Sorry. I thought you...”

He stood over the bed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just a dream. Just...” Now my heart hammered, almost too loud for me to think. I looked up at him, at that acre of bare chest and the main attraction under boxer shorts at eye level. I considered how nice it would be to have someone else to hold the nightmares at bay for once.

And I caved. I scooted over, pulled back the sheets. “Just stay with me,” I told him.

He didn’t move. “Janelle...”

“Nothing else. Just sleep with me.”

Another hesitation, then he crawled into bed beside me. The moment his skin hit mine I realized the insanity of “just sleep.” I ignored the warmth that crept inside me and its whispered suggestions. Not to mention Ken’s little buddy at full attention against my hip.

I don’t know how long we were both awake. I do know we didn’t move an inch all that time.

I snapped to consciousness at 6am and discovered my mouth smashed up against his shoulder and Ken’s hand cupped tight as a barnacle over my left breast. I managed to dislodge his fingers without waking him, pretended I didn’t feel his morning hard-on when I disengaged my leg from between his. I snagged my clothes and hobbled from the room, expectation that he’d catch me sneaking out knotting tension between my shoulders.

I dressed, then coped with a nasty case of bedhead before creeping downstairs. Ken scared the crap out of me when he popped out of the kitchen, still bare-chested, although he’d had the decency to pull on a pair of jeans.

“Just starting the coffee,” he mumbled as he passed me. He cleared me by inches, our mutual keep-away vibes colliding between us.

I was shoving my feet into my Nikes, hoping to make a speedy escape, when my calf locked up. Huffing like a woman in labor, I hopped to a chair in the dining room and fumbled into it.

As I tried to massage the tortured muscle, my cell chimed out its Jim Morrison tune. It was barely 6.30am, so Sheri’s chipper hello surprised me.

Phone wedged against my ear, I bent to tie my shoes. “Don’t tell me, aliens have landed in San Francisco.”

“Old news,” Sheri said. “They’ve been here for years.”

Finished with my laces, I tried again to stretch out my left calf. It didn’t. “You’re quitting law school to become a rabbi.”

“Are you interested in what I’ve dug up on Pickford and Beck or would you rather keep busting my chops?”

Abandoning the effort to recover my useless leg, I found a pad of paper in my computer bag. “You got my message from last night?” She assured me she had. “Okay, what have you got on our friendly neighborhood SOs?”

“I emailed you Beck’s arrest records and some additional info on Pickford. Pickford was into pretty standard stuff, if you can call that sicko stuff standard. He’s been everyone’s favorite neighbor or soccer coach, always glad to give extra special attention to any kid that needs it.”

“I picked up that much from the court records you sent before. Was it just boys? Or girls too?” I asked. “And what ages?”

“Boys exclusively. The youngest was seven, the oldest ten. He drops them when they hit puberty.”

I tapped my pen on the pad. “Doesn’t quite fit either Enrique or James.”

“Speaking of which...”

“You know as much as I do.” I wasn’t about to mention my latest theory to her. It sounded even more preposterous in the light of day.

“I just thought when you left that message–”

“Just a wild hare. Probably won’t pan out.” I gave my leg another try, wincing as invisible demons used my calf for target practice with a white-hot poker.

“I’ve told Mrs Madison there’s nothing new,” Sheri said. “But if you could call her–”

“And say what? That I know bupkis about where her son might be?”

I propped my foot up on the trestle table, hoping to give myself more leverage. I couldn’t hold back a wussy little whimper.

“What’s wrong?” Sheri asked.

“Leg,” I told her, knowing I would need no further explanation. “What about Beck?”

“That’s more interesting. He’s a collector.”

“Child porn on the computer?” I gasped as I leaned forward.

“No evidence of that. He collected
things
.”

Ken entered the kitchen, decked out in his uniform, and headed straight for the coffee pot. He glanced over at me, scowled at my foot on the table, then pulled two mugs from their hooks above the Mr Coffee. He clunked a mug in front of me, the cup of brew doctored perfectly with a scoop of creamer and two sugars.

He stood over me, sipping his coffee as I finished up with Sheri. When I set down the phone to suck up some caffeine, he stared at my foot as if it would levitate from vision power alone.

“It’s dead meat this morning,” I told him. “Apparently Paul Beck is a collector.”

Ken pulled up a chair opposite me. “Porn?” he asked, taking my foot into his lap. He slipped off the shoe and sock, then pushed my jeans up to my knee. He pressed his thumbs into either side of my calf.

I shook my head, gritting my teeth to keep from moaning in agony. “Trophies and souvenirs. A boy’s sock. A candy bar wrapper. One kid’s retainer.”

“Yuck.” He dug deeper, hitting the mother lode of pain.

“Pictures the boys drew. A pencil.” At his questioning look, I added, “It had the kid’s teeth marks on it.”

Ken grimaced in disgust. “So, if we could take a look at his place...”

“We might find some kind of indication that Enrique’s been there.” I sighed as his prodding fingers released a knot.

“Not James?”

“He’s too old.” I sagged in my chair as the last of the pain subsided. “He liked having lots of kids around. Invite them over for video game parties, that sort of thing. His favorites he’d have over for special, private games.”

He kept rubbing my leg, his hands warm against my skin. “But did any of those kids disappear?”

“No.”

My foot rested alongside the placket of his khaki trousers. Just an inch to the left and I’d see just how much he was enjoying the massage session.

He stroked from knee to ankle. “About last night...”

I tried to pull my leg free, but he held on tight. “We should go back to Beck’s place today,” I said, trying to launch the conversation in another direction. “Can you get a warrant?”

“Probably,” he said. “I know it’s none of my business...”

Another play for freedom, but he had me in a death grip now. “Pickford knew something about Enrique. It might be worth another visit to him.”

He leaned toward me. “Janelle–”

“Uncle Ken?”

I hadn’t heard the front door open. Obviously Ken hadn’t either, which was why he was caught flat-footed, so to speak, when Cassie suddenly made an appearance in the dining room.

“Charlie horse,” I told her as I slipped free, grateful my leg would support me now.

Ken pushed to his feet, hands in his pockets. “I thought you were staying at the Hamptons all day.”

Cassie’s avid gaze ping-ponged from Ken to me and back. “My insulin cartridge ran out. Mr Hampton dropped me off on his way to work so I could get a fresh set.”

Turning away from Cassie on the pretext of grabbing his coffee, Ken slurped down half the cup. “Are you going back?”

“I’d like to. Can you take me?”

“Sure.” He sidled around his niece into the kitchen. “Get your set. I’ll meet you outside.”

Cassie gave me another look, then left the room. Ken dumped his coffee in the sink, then pulled keys from his pocket. He started to take one off the ring. “Finish your coffee. Lock up when you’re done.”

“Hell, no. I’m getting out of here before she comes back.” I slid the mug across the breakfast bar. “Her wheels are turning fast enough as it is.”

I slung my computer over my shoulder and made a beeline through the kitchen. Ken followed me into the living room. Cassie had left the front door open, maybe had tiptoed up the porch steps as well after seeing my car cozied up to Ken’s Explorer.

Ken pushed the screen door open. “I’ll call you when I have the warrant.”

I ducked under his arm, flapping my hand in a farewell wave. Cassie appeared as I started up my car. She was grinning now, no doubt thoroughly enjoying Ken’s discomfort at the situation.

I had to back up around Ken’s truck to get myself pointed down the driveway, so I spotted Cassie’s smirk as she and Ken headed out to the Explorer. I rolled down my window a few inches as I pulled around and heard Ken’s heated defense to whatever Cassie had asked him. “Not any of your damn business,” and, “Nothing’s going on,” filtered over to me as I took my time shifting into drive. When he caught me listening, Ken speared me with the evil eye before he climbed in the Explorer.

Facing his wife, Tara, after she discovered our affair had probably been a cakewalk compared to being busted by his thirteen year-old niece. I ought to have a little sympathy for him.

I really shouldn’t have laughed as I pulled out of his drive.

CHAPTER 15

I made a quick pit stop at the Gold Rush Inn to freshen up and change into another of my thrift store castoffs, then headed over to Beck’s place. He wasn’t home, although the mailbox had been emptied. Mrs Bertram didn’t answer, which worried me; as old as she was, she could have died in her sleep.

I flagged down an elderly couple on a power walk through the mobile home park. “Janelle Watkins. I’m a private investigator.” I put out my hand to shake.

The woman’s grip nearly brought me to my knees. “Raelene. My husband, George.”

“Any idea where Mrs Bertram is?” I asked, trying to rub some circulation back into my fingers.

They walked in place, arms pumping. “Grandson picks her up early on Saturdays,” George told me, barely out of breath. “Spends the day with her.”

I flashed my dog-eared photos of Enrique and James. “Have you seen either of these kids around here?”

“This is an adults-only park.” Raelene sneered in the general direction of Beck’s mobile home. “Which is why they sent
him
here to live. Believe me, if I saw anyone under the age of eighteen with him, I’d be on the phone to the sheriff’s office.”

“Has Beck been home? I noticed his mail is gone.”

“I haven’t seen him,” Raelene said, fingertips against her wrist, eyes fixed on her watch.

“Do you know where he might have gone?”

Raelene lifted her knees higher as she marched. “I overheard him tell the manager he was going to visit his sister up in Santa Rosa.”

Santa Rosa. Where my Fresno undercover buddy, luvzboyz, had told me a young boy had been requested on the internet. I didn’t like the coincidence. If Beck was up there, he might well be up to no good.

“Have you ever met his sister?” I asked.

“Never. I spend as little time in that man’s presence as I can.” Raelene snagged George’s arm. “Got to keep our heart-rate up.” Off they went.

I could see two possibilities, both of them ugly. Either the sister did exist and Beck used his visits with her to either get close to his nephews or some other young boys in Santa Rosa without being under Ken’s nose. Or there was no sister at all. He’d mentioned her to Mrs Bertram and the manager just to give him cover for his trips to Santa Rosa. He could be president of the local Man-Boy Love association up there and Ken would be none the wiser.

I climbed back into the Escort, unsettled by Paul Beck’s continued absence. Even though it would be the most outrageous quirk of fate if Beck was in Santa Rosa picking up the young boy luvzboyz mentioned and even more bizarre if that boy happened to be Enrique, I still wouldn’t be satisfied until I could talk to the molester. If he didn’t turn up today and I left as planned, I’d likely never get the chance to grill him.

Cranking on the engine, I eyed the car clock. Not quite nine. If I intended to go home later today, I had to check out of the Gold Rush Inn by eleven. I knew I ought to do that now, before I started my interviews. Then I could take off when I either ran out of time or ran out of townspeople to harass.

But I drove right past the Gold Rush Inn, hunching a little as I passed under the glowering 49er. He probably still didn’t forgive me for painting a certain part of his anatomy pink back in junior high.

Over the years, Emil’s Café probably would have spent more time shut down due to health violations than it would have serving hash browns and burgers if Emil’s brother, Constantin, hadn’t worked for the county health inspector. I’d actually worked at Emil’s the summer I’d turned fifteen and quickly adopted a “don’t ask, don’t tell” approach to what those cockroaches were doing in the dry stores room.

When I entered the time warp of Emil’s, I was astounded that so little had changed in the twenty years since I’d left. The same cast iron skillets and copper bottom pots hung on the walls, although the inch of dust that had always coated them was gone. The gothic-looking, wrought-iron chandeliers still lit the place, but the cobwebs that had given Emil’s a year-round Halloween ambiance had been cleared out.

The cast of characters had changed, too. I didn’t recognize the twentyish blonde balancing four plates as she threaded her way through the tables, or the late-twenties, dark-haired guy working the kitchen. The cook had Emil’s hawk nose and eye squint, so I suspected the family still owned the place.