Fear the Dark (17 page)

Richards perked up.

‘I need three, maybe four rooms,’ he said with avuncular affection. ‘Think you could accommodate me at such short notice?’

Richards brightened. ‘Yes. Yes, of course, Sheriff. Absolutely. Anything you need. You want them right now? I only ask because I’d like to air them out, give everything a good and thorough cleaning.’

‘Don’t need ’em till later this evening, so you take your time. If there’s a problem, just give me a call. Otherwise I’ll be back here around five or so with the boys.’ He placed a hand on her shoulder as he handed over his card. He winked. ‘Thanks, hon.’

Laurie Richards was either the world’s loneliest woman or she had completely bought into Lancaster’s aw-shucks corn-pone sincerity. The woman blushed and, smiling, shuffled away, the ledger cradled against her chest. She glanced once over her shoulder.

Lancaster didn’t notice; his attention was on Darby. With his head he nodded towards Richards, who had already disappeared inside the hotel. ‘What was that about?’

‘I had some questions about what happened last night. Why you staying here?’

‘With gas prices the way they are, it’ll be cheaper than me and my people driving back and forth every day from Brewster. Laurie see or hear anything?’

‘No.’
And even if she did, I wouldn’t tell you
, Darby added privately.

‘So what did you say that made her burst into tears?’

‘She was afraid she’d done something wrong. She thought she was going to lose her job.’

‘You always conduct your interviews outside?’

‘I like the fresh air.’

‘Well, you’ll get plenty of that here, although the view’s for shit.’

Lancaster was telling the truth. Downtown Red Hill looked even more depressing in the daylight. Abandoned and forgotten. The movie theatre on the corner had the word
CLOSED
in crooked letters on the weathered marquee. The tallest building, made of brick, had a clock with a broken hand and
OUT OF BUSINESS
signs plastered on soaped windows. It was an old Sears building, the faded letters still visible on the rotted sign hanging on the roof.

‘Laurie’s got a right to be scared,’ he said. ‘Man who owns this place is one mean prick. Takes a certain delight, maybe even pride, in it.’

‘Charlie Baker.’

Lancaster nodded and removed a cigarette from his pack.

‘You know him?’ Darby asked.

‘Well enough to know he’s the type of guy who wakes up with a haemorrhoid and looks for someone to blame. So he goes to the pool of people who work for him. Woman like Laurie, he knows he’s got her painted into a corner and he takes full advantage of it – of her. She don’t
hop-to the right way he’ll shitcan her and she’ll be out on the street.’

‘Like the way you shitcanned Nelson last night?’

Lancaster looked into her eyes as he lit his cigarette with a Zippo. He inhaled deeply.

‘I know what you think happened last night, the version Nelson fed you,’ he said, tendrils of smoke drifting from his nostrils. ‘Truth is, the second you left he went into the house to take pictures with a disposable camera. Why would he do such a thing? Glad you asked. Mr Nelson, like every other cop in Red Hill, is looking for ways to supplement his income. There’s a tabloid website and supermarket rag-mag with the oh so original name of
Crime & Punishment
. You familiar with it?’

Unfortunately, she was. The popular website for true-crime fans had posted a lot of articles about her over the years, the majority of which were filled with bullshit quotes from a ‘close pal’ of hers and ‘a source close to the investigation’.

‘Williams tell you they and a few other reporters were here sniffing around last month?’

Darby shook her head and glanced at her watch.

‘What a surprise,’ Lancaster said. ‘These bottom feeders were all over town. A serial killer who targets families makes good copy, brings in a lot of traffic to their websites – especially if photos are involved. You know how much a couple of crime scene photos would be worth? Take a guess.’

‘A few hundred bucks?’

‘Try two gees. Autopsy photos are worth more. I know
this because the same reporter from
Crime & Punishment
who approached Nelson approached me. This guy gave me the whole song and dance, promised to pay in cash, no questions.’

‘You take him up on it?’

Lancaster ignored the barb and steamrolled ahead. ‘This reporter, I found his card tucked into Nelson’s wallet. I’m willing to bet he neglected to tell you that little detail, didn’t he?’

Darby said nothing. She slipped on her sunglasses as Lancaster took another deep draw from his cigarette.

‘When I found out about the Downes family,’ Lancaster said, ‘I drove here in my truck, not a cruiser, and parked at the house and watched the action through a pair of binoculars. I did that because Red Hill PD’s leaking info like a sieve. My boss and the people he reports to don’t want that to happen any more, so guess who gets to be the bad guy? State’s trying to attract some major players to Red Hill, get them to build a Walmart and some other big box stores – places that’ll create jobs. We don’t want to scare them away with stories of a serial killer and a police station that can’t do
its
job correctly.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Why you in such a rush to leave? I got BO or something?’

‘Agent Hoder’s waiting on me.’

‘Okay, I’ll make it quick, then. You and I got off on the wrong foot. My fault entirely.’ He took another drag from his cigarette and pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Then he blew out a long stream of smoke.
‘Both my ex-wives said they’ve met autistic kids who’ve got better social skills, and the woman I’m with now, I’m pretty sure she shares their view.’

‘My apologies.’

‘For what?’

‘For the woman you’re currently with. She has my deepest sympathy.’

‘See, there you go again with the mouth. I’m trying to be sincere and you’re treating me like I’m a walking case of syphilis.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Look, when I work a case, I’ve got all the subtlety and personality of a heat-seeking missile. All I see is the target. My manners go right out the window. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat last night or make that Midol crack. That was wrong. Out of line. But you came on hard and strong, and I went into overdrive. You feds get my dander up.’

‘I don’t work for the feds. I’m just a consultant.’

‘But you
have
worked on my side of the fence. You know what it’s like when the feds come in and invade your turf. They piss on you and then expect you to clean it up with a smile and say thank you, Massa. I don’t operate that way. I’m not built for bullshit. So the thing last night and what happened in the squad room – I was in attack mode. I was wrong, it was out of line, and I apologize.’

His tone had been conciliatory and humble, and his speech had hit all the right notes. It also smacked of delivery by rote.

Lancaster held out his hand. Darby stared at it a moment, thinking, about to shake it to make peace and get on with her day, when she saw his gaze, whether on purpose or
unconsciously, fix on her chest and compare what he saw in the daylight to the pictures on his phone.

Darby tucked her hands in her jacket pockets.

‘They said you weren’t big on apologies,’ he said.

‘Who’s “they”?’

‘Your former colleagues in Boston. I talked to a couple of them this morning, wanted to see if I’d read you wrong. They had all sorts of interesting things to say about you. Guy who runs the Crime Lab, your former boss, Pratt? He called you Dick Cheney with tits. I now understand what he meant.’

‘Does it ever bother you?’

‘Does what bother me?’

‘Being the product of a busted rubber.’

Lancaster took a long draw on his cigarette, his narrowly set eyes void of expression. ‘Not that I expect it to change your mind or stop you from treating me and everyone else here like yesterday’s dog shit, but you should ask Ray about the pictures
he
took inside the Connelly house.’

What’s he talking about
? Lancaster had accused the patrolman Nelson of taking pictures inside the Connelly house.

Lancaster saw her puzzlement and, grinning, added, ‘That’s right. Williams also took pictures inside the house. That man, I’m coming to learn, is full of all sorts of surprises.’ Lancaster flicked his cigarette into the air. ‘Have a nice life.’

31

Cindy’s Diner operated out of a refurbished trolley car built against the side of a decrepit brick building. The red- and black-painted wood had a high-gloss lacquer, and a bright neon band of blue light glowed around the edges of a mansard roof. Smoke puffed from a roof vent and scattered in the breeze.

The inside was small and hummed with activity. A single waitress, a tall, slim woman with long black hair held behind her head with an elastic band and wearing blood-red lipstick, hustled around the room delivering steaming plates of food and refilling coffee cups. The long stainless-steel counter running the length of the diner held an assortment of scraggly men dressed in hunting jackets.

Darby found Hoder sitting to the far left, next to a window, in a booth made of red vinyl. He had a stack of blueberry pancakes in front of him and his hand shook when he picked up a mug and slurped his coffee.

She slid into the bench across from him. ‘You really hypoglycaemic?’

Hoder nodded. ‘My doctor thinks I’m fast approaching adult-onset diabetes,’ he said. ‘Plus I had the distinct feeling Ms Richards would be more comfortable talking to a woman, alone.’

Darby told him about her conversation with Laurie Richards. She was about to tell him about Lancaster when the waitress came over, coffee pot in hand.

Hoder said, ‘She’ll have coffee – and a full breakfast.’ Then, to Darby, ‘Eat something. That’s an order. I can’t have you passing out from hunger.’

Darby ordered steak and eggs, with a side of hash and pancakes. When the waitress left, Darby told Hoder about her interaction with the deputy sheriff.

‘This Charlie Baker fellow sounds like a real mensch,’ Hoder said wryly. ‘That explains Laurie Richards’s odd behaviour. She’s been acting like a cat trapped in a room full of rocking chairs ever since we arrived.’

‘What’s your take on Lancaster?’

‘You want to know if he’s a psychopath.’

Darby chuckled, shook her head. ‘Am I really that transparent?’ she asked.

‘No, not at all. I’ve been wondering that myself.’ He slurped his coffee and then wiped his mouth with a balled-up napkin. ‘I was told he started out his career at the sheriff’s office writing speeding tickets. Then, three years later, he was promoted to deputy sheriff. What’s that say to you?’

‘That’s he’s a career climber and opportunistic son of a bitch with a grandiose sense of self-worth. Someone with superficial charm who’s ruthless and lacks remorse.’

‘All the traits of a psychopath.’

‘Or a successful politician.’

Hoder tapped his palm against the table and pointed a
finger at her. ‘Exactly the point I was going to make,’ he said. ‘These two Harvard psychiatrists, you may know them, Doctors Rand and Hein, they did a landmark study on how the personality aspects we generally associate with psychopaths – confidence, fearlessness, charisma, ruthlessness and a laser-like focus – are, in fact, the same character traits found in highly successful politicians, surgeons, CEOs and world leaders.’

‘I read their paper. Lancaster hits all the right notes, minus the charisma.’

‘Yes. Unfortunately for Mr Lancaster, he was cursed with a personality that makes you want to drive your fist through his skull. My guess is he compensates for it with sheer ruthlessness, manipulating people who are powerless and moving them around like chess pieces.’

‘So explain to me why he’s suddenly developed such a major hard-on for the Red Hill Ripper.’

‘The killer represents an opportunity.’

‘For career advancement.’

‘And fame,’ Hoder said. ‘Look at your own career. You caught a serial killer who eluded capture for, what, almost three decades, and you became a minor celebrity in both the legitimate press and tabloids.’

‘That wasn’t my choice. I didn’t seek it out.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting you did. And by fame I don’t mean he simply yearns to see his face plastered in the papers and all over TV, although I’m sure that plays a part in his psychological drive. It’s recognition he craves. By catching the Ripper, Lancaster proves he’s not only smarter than the killer but also smarter than you, me, the FBI. He’s
angling to take over the case now because we represent a collective threat – you, especially.’

‘Because he’s a misogynist.’

‘That’s probably true,’ Hoder said. ‘He finds you particularly vexing.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You didn’t flinch when he tried to embarrass you in front of a roomful of men, and you didn’t run away and hide in shame or embarrassment when those pictures of you were exposed.’

‘The way a normal woman should,’ Darby added.

Hoder’s smile was warm. Paternal. ‘You’re far from normal,’ he said. ‘In all my travels, I can honestly say I’ve never met a woman like you. It’s your capacity for violence that threatens men like Teddy Lancaster. You can handle yourself physically, and you’re a killer.’

‘I’m not a killer.’

‘You’ve killed before and you have the
capacity
to kill again. And you will, in the right circumstances, without hesitation.’ There was no judgement in his voice, just a cold, clinical tone. ‘You represent castration anxiety in the metaphorical sense – you have the power to emasculate men, make them feel powerless.’

‘Do you feel that way?’

Hoder didn’t have a chance to answer; the waitress had returned, but she wasn’t carrying any plates, just a cordless phone. She pressed a finger to her lips, signalling for them to be quiet. She placed the phone on their table and then she reached inside her apron and came back with a receipt that had been folded once and handed it to Darby.

Darby unfolded the piece of paper and read the bold, black writing: