Deadeye (20 page)

Now, Lee and Omo were about to interview Shelly Reston, the girl who had been imprisoned with Amanda in Los Angeles. Shelly and the rest of the hostages had been admitted to a Phoenix hospital, where they were undergoing tests prior to being sent to their various homes. Having been cleared through security, Lee and Omo rode an elevator up to the fifth floor. From there it was a short walk to the wing where the girls were housed. Two deputies were on duty, and one of them knew Omo. She sent them to room 501. The door was slightly ajar, but Lee knocked anyway. A female voice said, “Come in.”

As Lee entered, she saw that Shelly was dressed in what looked like brand-new street clothes and sitting in the room's only chair. “Hi,” Lee said. “I'm Detective Lee—and this is Deputy Omo. Thank you for agreeing to see us.”

Shelly stood. She wasn't very tall and didn't have much meat on her. A mask prevented Lee from seeing her face. “You're the one who came up out of the tunnel,” Shelly said. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Lee replied. “Deputy Omo was there, too . . . He's the one who shot Hermoza.”

Shelly extended a small hand. “Thank you, Deputy Omo, he deserved to die.”

Omo took her hand and shook it gently. “Yeah, he did. Unfortunately, there are more just like him.”

“That's why we're here,” Lee interjected. “You were with Amanda Screed . . . And we're trying to find her.”

“I hope you do,” Shelly said fervently. “She deserves it. When I was down, she would find a way to cheer me up. I owe her a lot.”

“Let's go to the lounge,” Omo suggested. “We'll be more comfortable there.”

The lounge was a small room two doors down. It was equipped with a round table, four chairs, and a TV that was tuned to a Spanish-language station. As they took their seats, Lee noticed the scars on Shelly's wrists and knew that she had attempted suicide at some point. Knowing that the young woman had been through a lot, Lee hoped to keep the conversation low-key. “So you were snatched off a street in LA and imprisoned in Willy Conroy's garage. What happened next?”

“Amanda was already there,” Shelly said earnestly. “And two days later, she managed to escape. She would have made it, too, except that she spent too much time trying to free me. Conroy came and beat her up.

“Two days later, he loaded us into his van and took off. There weren't any windows, so we couldn't see out. But he said we were headed for the red zone, and that made sense.

“After what might have been a couple of hours, he stopped so we could pee. I don't know where we were except to say it was someplace out in the boonies.”

“Could you see any mountains?” Omo inquired.

“No, it was dark. But Conroy said we were going to use a secret crossing. A dry riverbed that ran east to west. And once we got under way, the ride was extremely rough.

“Finally, we came to a stop. Conroy let us out, gave us some candy bars, and built a fire next to the van. We were in Arizona, or that's what he told us. We waited for a while, lights appeared, and a pickup arrived. The man who got out seemed to know Conroy.”

“Did you hear a name?” Lee inquired.

“Yes. It was Lictor or something like that.”

“How about Rictor?” Omo asked.

“Yes! That's it . . . Rictor. He paid Conroy and made us get into the back of his truck. There was a camper on it, and he locked the door.”

“Okay,” Lee said. “What happened next?”

“We drove cross-country,” Shelly said. “That's what it felt like. For an hour or so. Then the truck came to a stop, and Rictor told us to get out. He put hoods over our heads. We heard voices. One of them wanted to know which one of us was Amanda.”

Lee interrupted at that point. “That's what he said? He mentioned her by name?”

“Yes,” Shelly replied. “I couldn't see much through the cloth, but I think one of the men took Amanda's hood off and aimed a flashlight at her face.”

“Now that's interesting,” Omo said thoughtfully. “Slavers want girls. I get that. But why would someone want a
specific
girl?”

“Why indeed?” Lee wondered out loud. “All right, what happened next?”

Shelly shrugged. “I heard the men talk about money as they took Amanda away. She was crying. Rictor forced me into the truck. Then we drove some more. Finally, as the sun came up, we arrived at a bunch of old trailers. Three D-Dawgs were waiting there. They gave Rictor some money, and he left.” Shelly shuddered and looked down. “That's when they did things to me. And told me not to tell.”

Lee reached over to touch her arm. “I'm sorry, honey . . . You were brave. Very brave. And you survived. That's the main thing.”

Shelly looked up. There was a fierce look in her brown eyes. “Two of them are dead,” she said. “And one of them is in jail.”

“He'll hang,” Omo predicted. “Justice is quite swift around here.”

Maybe a little too swift,
Lee thought, but kept the opinion to herself.

The questioning continued for another five minutes or so—but it quickly became apparent that Shelly had nothing more of consequence to share. So the officers thanked her and left.

Later, once they were on the road, Omo spoke. “So, what do you think?”

“Rictor got paid,” Lee replied. “Yet, according to the reports filed by Deputy Haster, there was no money to speak of on his body or in his home. So where did it go?”

“He pissed it away,” Omo suggested.

“Maybe,” Lee allowed. “And maybe not. Let's ask his mommy.”

BEFORE VISITING MRS.
Rictor, it was necessary to perform some preliminary research. So it was midafternoon by the time Omo parked the truck in front of the nearly empty pizza parlor. From there it was only a few steps to the Quik Cuts beauty salon located next door. The interior was still very cold. A beautician came out to greet them. There were two holes where her nose should have been, and she was clearly surprised to see two people wearing masks enter the shop. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“We would like to speak with Mrs. Rictor,” Lee replied. “Is she in?”

The woman shook her head. “No, Mrs. Rictor owns the salon, but she's retired. I'm the manager now. Would you like an appointment?”

“No,” Lee said. “Not today. But thank you.” And with that, the police officers left.

“Retired?”
Lee said, as they returned to the truck. “How nice.”

“It's consistent with your theory,” Omo said. “I have her address. Let's drop in.”

The sun had started to sink into the west by then. So the saguaros threw long shadows as the truck passed small horse farms. Most were barely large enough for a single animal, a shed, and a corral. But some ran to a couple of acres. And that was enough for two or three horses.

As they pulled into the driveway, Lee saw that Mrs. Rictor's ranchita fell into the latter category. Her one-story frame house was painted pink with white trim. Farther back, a nicely fenced corral could be seen, along with an exercise area and a brown horse.

Omo followed the circular drive around a cement fountain that was painted pink to match the house and pulled up about ten feet from the front door. As Lee got out, she noticed that a shiny especiale was parked in the carport. It was a nice ride for a lady who ran a beauty parlor.

Omo led the way to the front door and the sign that read,
MI CASA ES TU CASA
. He rang the bell.

Lee heard a yapping noise followed by a partially muffled voice. “Stop it, Sugar . . . Behave yourself.”

There was a pause, as if Mrs. Rictor was looking at them through the peephole. Omo was hard to forget, so Lee figured Mrs. Rictor would remember him, and was soon proved to be correct. The door opened, and there she was. The hairdo was the same, as were the fake eyelashes and the splash of pink lipstick. This time a white dog was tucked under one arm. It bared its teeth and growled. “Deputy Omo!” Mrs. Rictor said. “And Detective Lee. What a pleasant surprise. Come in.”

Omo stood to one side so Lee could enter first. She was expecting some sort of western motif and was surprised by the Italianate furniture and a Tuscan paint scheme. Lee's mask did very little to mitigate the stink of stale cigarette smoke. “Please have a seat,” Mrs. Rictor said. Lee chose a chair next to their hostess while Omo perched on an uncomfortable-looking couch. “I saw the news stories,” Mrs. Rictor said. “El Cabra was killed. Is that why you're here? Did you find evidence that he was responsible for my son's death?”

“No,” Lee replied. “Although that is a distinct possibility. We're here because we have a witness who was present when your son sold a girl named Amanda Screed to a group of men out in the desert. People who
weren't
part of the D-Dawg gang. We want to know who those people were.”

For the first time, Lee saw what might have been a look of concern in the other woman's eyes. “Well, as I told you before,” Mrs. Rictor said, “Vincent fell in with bad company. But I never met any of the people he hung out with. Nor did I want to.”

“I'm inclined to believe that,” Omo responded. “But I think you know
of
them even if you never encountered them face-to-face. And, after your son died, I think you went to his apartment or some other location and removed a very large sum of money. Dirty money . . . If so, that would make you an accessory to a kidnapping. Or a number of kidnappings.”

“That's absurd!” Mrs. Rictor said hotly.

“Is it?” Lee inquired. “You had a mortgage on this house until a week ago. Then you paid it off. Along with the loan for the especiale outside. If Deputy Omo is wrong, where did the money come from?”

Mrs. Rictor looked defiant. “Maybe I saved the money . . . And maybe I'll use some of it to hire an attorney.”

“You can if you want to,” Omo acknowledged. “Although you won't have much money left by the time the legal process is over. Or you could tell us what we want to know. The money, and where you got it, is a side issue as far as we're concerned.”

Mrs. Rictor looked at Lee and back again. “If I tell, you'll leave me alone?”

“Yes,” Lee replied. “Unless we come across evidence that you knew about one or more abductions in advance and/or played a role in carrying them out. Then we'll come looking for you.”

Mrs. Rictor was holding Sugar in her lap. She was silent for a moment. “All right,” she said finally. “I've never heard of Amanda what's her name. But Vincent told me that he did business with a man named Tom-Tom. ‘Side jobs.' That's what he called the deals Hermoza wasn't aware of.”

“Good,” Lee said. “Now we're getting somewhere. Did Vincent tell you anything else about Tom-Tom?”

Mrs. Rictor shook her head. “No, not really . . . Well, there was one thing. My son said that Tom-Tom has two heads. Two people really . . . Sharing one body. And both are named Tom.” They questioned Mrs. Rictor about the man with two heads, but she didn't have any details to offer, or if the woman did, she wasn't about to share them.

So they left. Once Lee was in the truck, she fastened her seat belt. “Well,” she said. “That was interesting . . . How many two-headed men can there be? We should be able to find him, I mean them, by this time tomorrow.”

Omo looked at her. “That wasn't funny, Cassandra . . . I wouldn't be surprised if there were a quarter million two-headed people in the Republic of Texas. And I doubt any of them wanted to be born that way.”

Lee heard the pain in his voice and wondered the same thing that had occurred to her so many times before. What was behind the mask? “I'm sorry, Ras . . . That was stupid.”

Omo drove her back to the hotel and agreed to meet at the headquarters building in the morning. Maybe, if they were lucky, Tom-Tom had a criminal record. If so, they would be in jail, on parole, or out and about. Even then, there would be a last-known address in the database. And that would provide them with a starting point.

So Lee said good night, got out of the truck, and made her way through the shabby lobby to the one elevator that actually worked. Her plan was to freshen up and call out for some pizza.

After exiting the elevator, Lee made her way down the hall to her room, stuck the keycard into the slot, and saw the green light appear. As she entered, she was vaguely aware of the pine-scented deodorizer in the air, the dull rumble of the TV in the next room, and the fact that the bed was made.

She took the jacket off and threw it on the single chair. The shoulder holster was next, followed by the Smith & Wesson. She didn't undress, though. That would have to wait until after the pizza arrived. She could have a Coke however . . . And went over to the bar-style refrigerator to get one.

Lee opened the door, saw the usual array of cans, and was about to reach for one when she saw something that shouldn't be there. It was a clear plastic bag. And a fairly large one at that. She pulled it out, turned to hold it under the ceiling light, and realized she was holding a couple of bones. For a dog perhaps? Left there by a previous guest? No, there was something about one of them. Lee opened the bag, took both bones out, and instinctively fit them together. A human femur! One which had been broken in half! The Bonebreaker . . .

Lee let go of the bones, whirled, and snatched the revolver off the chair. Her heart beat wildly as she scanned the room. There was a knot of fear where her stomach should have been, and the .357 was trembling. Pistol extended, she entered the bathroom. Nothing.

Lee returned to the room at that point and sat on the bed. Ten minutes passed while she sat there clutching the pistol. But that was stupid, and she knew it. He, assuming the killer was male, wouldn't attack on that particular night. The whole idea was to scare the crap out of her and make her suffer.

So she picked the bone fragments up off the floor, put the Smith & Wesson aside, and went through her suitcase item by item. Had he or she been able to plant a tracker on her somehow? Or was the serial killer working the old-fashioned way—watching and following?

But the search didn't produce anything other than dirty laundry. And when it was over, she still had to get some rest. Sleep refused to come, however. All she could do was lie on the bed and wait for the sun to rise. Once it did, Lee got up, showered, and put the bone fragments in her briefcase. Breakfast consisted of coffee and a sweet roll consumed in the lobby. From there, she went out to the rent-a-wreck, which she subjected to a careful inspection. And that produced what she thought it would. A magnetic tracker that was attached to the frame. She threw the device out the window on her way to work.

People knew her by then, so it was a lot easier to get through security. Lots of men and some of the female deputies liked to flirt with her—and Lee handled that the same way she did back in LA. For the most part, a joke or a change of subject was sufficient to put them off without hurting any feelings.

Once Lee arrived in the bull pen, she went in search of Omo and found him in front of his computer. “Got a minute?” she inquired, and led him to a vacant conference room. The bones rattled as she dumped them onto the wood table. Omo looked up from the bones to her face. “Where did you find these?”

“In the refrigerator in my room.”

“Any signs of a forced entry?”

“None.”

“He bribed a maid, then . . . Or slipped into the room when she wasn't looking.”

“Probably.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“What
can
I do? Especially here. Keep working. But I promised to tell you if something took place, and now you know.”

“Don't worry, Cassandra . . . We'll spot the bastard. It's only a matter of time.”

Lee wasn't so sure, but she nodded anyway. “Right.”

Omo picked one-half of the bone up and turned it over. His long, tapered fingers would have been suitable for a surgeon. “What's
this
? Who is Larry Evans?”

Lee took the bone fragment out of his hands and stared at it. The inscription was barely legible, but sure enough, the name “Sgt. Larry Evans” had been scratched into the femur with a sharp instrument. Sergeant Larry Evans was the Bonebreaker's second victim. He'd been killed during the month of April in 2055. His head and torso had been left next to the Hollywood Freeway—but the rest of the body had never been recovered.

Suddenly, the coffee and the roll came surging up her throat and shot out onto the table. Omo managed to grab a wastebasket and get it under her chin before her stomach convulsed for a second time, and the rest of her breakfast came up.

It took the better part of five minutes for the heaves to stop, and once Omo knew Lee was okay, he left to get some paper towels. There was a sink in the room, and, together, they managed to clean up. The smell was pretty bad, though—and Omo's solution was to make a fresh pot of coffee. “Our coffee always smells like vomit,” he said. “So no one will notice.”

Lee laughed in spite of herself, and they were well clear of the room by the time the vice squad entered to have a meeting. They went outside and circled the building so Lee would have time to regain her composure. She told Omo about Evans, and the deputy shook his head. “You've got to be careful, Cassandra. This guy is toying with you. He'll come for you one day. Maybe you should report this.”

“No,” Lee said firmly. “Arpo will send me back to LA if we do . . . And McGinty would go crazy. You were on your computer when I arrived. What, if anything, did you discover?”

Omo shook his head. “I couldn't find a single person named Tom-Tom, never mind two of them.”

“Damn.”

“So we need a plan.”

“Yes, we do,” Lee agreed. “Here's a thought . . . Something that came to mind while I was staring at the ceiling last night. Rictor sold Amanda to Tom-Tom. So, if we dig into the Rictor murder, maybe we'll come up with information that will lead us to Tom-Tom.”

“I don't know,” Omo said doubtfully. “That sounds like a long shot.”

They were upstairs by then and crossing the bull pen. “Okay, Cowboy,” Lee said. “Have you got a better idea?”

“No.”

“Well, then . . . Let's get to work. A deputy named Haster was working on the Rictor case. Let's talk to him.”

“We can't,” Omo replied. “One of the Tecs shot Gus in the face.”

That was when Lee remembered the memorial service and realized that Haster had been one of the deputies buried that day. He had a wife, too—and a couple of kids. She felt stupid. “I'm sorry, Ras . . . I forgot.”

“There were a lot of them,” he said bitterly. “Come on . . . I'll take you over to meet Lieutenant Ducey. She's in charge of Homicide. Who knows? Maybe you can use Haster's desk.”

It was a short walk, and Ducey looked up as they arrived. “Hey there, Omo . . . Nice work the other day.”

Ducey's black hair had been separated and woven into braids, each of which seemed to have a life of its own. They writhed like snakes as the introductions were made, and Ducey listened to Lee's request. The lieutenant had brown skin, a no-nonsense manner, and was wearing turquoise rings on three different fingers. “Sure, hon,” she said. “You can use Haster's desk. We've been shorthanded since he was killed, and truth be told, the Rictor case has a low priority. I mean the guy was a gangbanger . . . Somebody was bound to kill him sometime.”