Footprints of a Dancer (Detective Elliot Mystery) (9 page)

“I wasn’t there when it happened. Gerald didn’t want to talk about it, so I didn’t push it.”

“What did he talk about?”

Terri took a drag on her cigarette. “He’d been going on about artifacts and things, you know, like he used to, talking about his grandfather’s estate, and what he did or didn’t get from it.”

Elliot thought about the printout of Spiro Mounds he’d seen in Gerald’s office. “Something in his life recently changed, dragged him into his past. Do you have any idea what it might have been?”

Terri wiped her eyes with a napkin, smearing the dark circles of makeup. “I think his old lady might have sold part of his collection or something.”

Elliot stared across the table at Terri. She’d finally said something that made sense. “Did Gerald tell you that?”

She nodded. “It has something to do with Laura. She sends a shiver up my spine, Kenny. She always did.”

Elliot pushed away from the table and handed Terri one of his business cards. “I’ll sort this thing out,” he said. “Anytime you want to talk, just call.”

He walked out of the bar but his confidence didn’t match the promise he’d made. Again he tried calling Carmen, but again she didn’t answer. She hadn’t said anything was wrong, but… He needed to get back to Tulsa, check on her if he couldn’t reach her on the phone. He also needed to look for Gerald’s Cadillac. If he’d been living out of the car, he would have driven it when he went to Tulsa.

Chapter Fifteen

Back in Tulsa, Elliot arrived at the intersection at 14
^th
and Cheyenne where the abandoned house had been. He checked the street signs to make sure he was in the right location, even though he already knew he was.

The old house was not there. A couple of bull dozers lumbered across the landscape, pushing a pile of rubble into a hole where the basement had been.

Elliot parked across the street and flagged down one of the workers.

The worker operating the dozer shut down the machine and leaned over, a questioning expression coming across his face.

“What happened?” Elliot asked.

“The old place caught fire. It was in shambles anyway. I think it was some wino trying to keep warm. It happens.”

With a blank stare, the worker fired up the dozer and resumed his task.

Whatever evidence there might have been was now buried beneath several feet of dirt. Elliot turned away and started toward his truck, but as he reached the edge of the property, something reflecting the light of the sun caught his attention.

He leaned over and scooped up the object.

Even before Elliot opened the palm of his hand, he knew what it was. He’d recognized the jewelry, and as he stared at the earring, crafted of silver and turquoise with a tiny dream catcher dangling from the metal, his stomach churned. Laura Bradford had been wearing the earrings when he’d seen her on the running trails at the River Park.

Elliot stuffed the earring into his pocket and crossed the street. Seconds later, he pulled away from the curb and went south on Cheyenne Avenue. He planned to search the area in increasingly widening circles until he’d satisfied himself that Gerald’s Cadillac was either there, or it wasn’t.

As it turned out, it didn’t take long. Halfway up the block on Carson, Elliot found an old, beige Cadillac parked along the curbside. Elliot pulled in behind the car. How many beige, 1989 Cadillac Devilles could there be? He slipped out of the truck and walked around the vehicle, but as he reached for the driver’s side door, someone challenged him.

“Mind if I ask what you’re doing?”

An elderly gentleman stood in the yard near where the Cadillac was parked.

He’d probably seen Elliot poking around, and had come outside to see what was going on. “Do you know who owns this car?” Elliot asked.

He rubbed his chin, the expression on his face going from concern to oh-I-might-as-well. “No, sir, I can’t say as I do. A man pulled up about 10:30 in the morning yesterday and got out and walked away. The car’s been there since.”

Elliot went to the rear of the vehicle, pulled his notepad and jotted down the number on the license plate. “What did this guy look like?”

“Oh, average height, a little pudgy around the middle, short reddish hair. He had one of them little beards, a go-tee I think they call it.”

Elliot went to his truck and pulled a Slim Jim from behind the seat. The nosy neighbor had just described Gerald, at least as Elliot had seen him on the altar.

The neighbor pointed to the tool. “What are you planning on doing there?”

Elliot started to explain the situation but decided the concept would be lost on the old guy. “I’m a private investigator,” he said. “I realize how this must look, but I’m working on a case. It’s rather touchy at this point, so I can’t give you the details.”

On the passenger side of the vehicle, Elliot worked the notched end of the tool between the glass and the rubber, just above the lock. He fished it up and down until the notch snagged onto the control arm, and with an upward pull the lock disengaged. He removed the tool and opened the door.

Elliot laid the Slim Jim on the asphalt and climbed into the Cadillac, sliding into the passenger seat.

The vehicle smelled of polish and well-worn leather. Other than a couple of blankets and a pillow stacked neatly in a corner of the backseat, the interior of the car was clean.

Elliot searched the glove compartment and found some repair bills, a few pens and pencils, and a tire gauge. The other storage areas, a console between the seats and pouches on the backside of the front seats, yielded a flashlight and few recent issues of
American Archaeology
. Elliot lowered the sun visors and found nothing, but as he leaned over to look under the seats, he found a sheet of paper.

Elliot retrieved the paper and examined it.

It was another photocopy, this one depicting a knife, its carved handle worked into a figurine from which protruded a blade constructed of a shiny rock-like substance.

From the curbside, the neighbor watched, his expression reflecting a mixture of interest, and trepidation. “What you got there?”

Elliot flipped the page over. Written on the backside was the address of the old house at 14
^th
and Cheyenne.

Elliot climbed out of the Cadillac and relocked the door.

The old man followed Elliot to his truck. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ve told you all I can. Don’t worry about the car. I’ll send someone for it.”

Elliot climbed into the truck and closed the door. He suspected the artifact shown on the photocopy had been what Gerald was after, and the reason he’d come to Tulsa and ultimately to the old house at 14
^th
and Cheyenne. Elliot thought about the earring he’d found there. The ancient knife had something to do with Laura Bradford as well.

Chapter Sixteen

Wayne Garcia heard a rumbling sound behind him.

He stepped completely off the pavement and stood in the grass alongside the highway, watching the eighteen-wheeler go past.

About fifty feet up the road, the truck came to a stop.

Wayne glanced around looking for a route he could take in case he needed to make a run for it. Something was up. He’d asked his dad once about trucks making that sound. He’d called it Jake Braking. It meant the driver needed to stop in a hurry. Wayne figured he was the reason the driver had done that. Wayne thought about the teenager who’d picked him up earlier outside of Coweta. He’d seemed pretty cool, and Wayne didn’t think he would’ve told anybody about him, but he couldn’t be sure. Then again, even if he had, the truck driver probably wouldn’t know about it yet.

The passenger door popped open and a man with a square face leaned out of the cab and waved. “Hey, kid. You need a ride?”

Wayne stood alongside the highway, watching as cars sped past. His mom had made it clear about avoiding strangers, but Arkansas was a long way from here, and if he was ever going to get there, he’d need a ride. Besides, it was starting to rain, and the driver seemed nice enough. He pulled the hood of the sweatshirt over his head and started toward the truck. One of the cars that’d gone past was a highway patrol. He’d seen the markings. He didn’t think the trooper had noticed him, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

The door on the other side of the truck slammed and a few seconds later, the driver came around the front of the truck. He reached up and opened the door on the passenger side. “Let’s get you out of the rain,” he said.

Wayne looked up at the truck. He couldn’t remember being this close to one before. It was huge. He put his foot on a step and climbed up, scooting into a large seat on the passenger side of the cab. It smelled kind of oily.

After getting back into the truck, the driver asked, “What are you doing out here all by yourself?”

Answers ran through Wayne’s head, but none of them seemed right, so he settled for at least part of the truth. “I’m going to see my dad.”

The man gunned the truck and pulled back onto the road. He drove for a few seconds then said, “Where does your dad live?”

Wayne thought through what he would say, but again he came up empty. “Arkansas.”

“Whereabouts in Arkansas?”

“Siloam Springs.”

“Is that where you live?”

Wayne thought about his answer. The driver could have heard by now that someone from Porter was missing, and he might turn him in if he said the wrong thing. Maybe the truth wasn’t the best way to go after all. “No, sir. I live in … Muskogee.”

“There’s a lot of road between Muskogee and Siloam. You weren’t planning on walking were you?”

“I guess so. Kind of a dumb idea, huh?”

The driver smiled “You could say that. But it’s not a problem. I just happen to be going there myself.”

The man opened a console beside his seat and pulled something from it. He tossed it to Wayne.

Wayne caught the object and turned it over in his hands. It was a sandwich in a plastic bag.

“Thought you might be hungry.”

“Yes, sir. I should have thought to bring something.”

The man pulled out a can of soda and handed it to Wayne. “Name’s Jim,” he said. “What do they call you?”

Wayne almost blurted it out. He’d have to be more careful. “It’s Mike… Mike Roberts.”

The driver didn’t say anything.

Wayne wondered if he believed his story, or if he was just playing along.

Finally he spoke again. “Tell me something, Mike Roberts. Do you have people back in Muskogee who might be wondering where you are?”

Wayne didn’t like where this was going. It could be just his imagination, but the man’s voice seemed different now, a little less friendly. And he kept looking at him, taking his eyes off the road a little too often.

Wayne checked the passenger door, looking for a handle or a button that might open it. He took his phone from his pocket and pretended to check for messages. “Nothing yet, but thanks for reminding me. If I don’t call in every so often, they will start to worry.”

“I see. And who might be worrying about you?”

“You know, my mom and dad.”

“I thought you said your dad was in Arkansas.”

Wayne checked the road signs: Highway 69, and they were heading north. He’d been this way before. “That’s true, but it don’t stop him from calling me. He wants to see me. He asked me to come.” A bunch of lies, but Wayne wasn’t about to let the driver know he was fibbing.

The truck driver shook his head. “I don’t know, son. I don’t think either of your parents would want you hitchhiking across the state. Why don’t you tell me the truth? You’re a runaway, aren’t you?”

Chapter Seventeen

The nosy neighbor who’d told Elliot about the Cadillac stood in his yard watching.

Elliot studied the strange image depicted on the photocopy he’d found in Gerald’s car, and as rain began to splatter the windshield of the truck, an old tune played on the radio:
Burning Down the House
; Talking Heads. One of Gerald’s favorites.

Elliot placed the photocopy on the seat and retrieved the earring he’d found near the remains of the old house.

The interior of the truck turned cold as the earring dangled from Elliot’s fingers, the tiny dream catcher attached to it twirling.

Elliot remembered a myth he’d heard about dream catchers—they would catch the evil dreams and spirits, letting only the good ones through—and as he closed his hand around the jewelry it grew warm against the flesh of his palm.

He stowed the earring in the glove compartment of the truck, waved to the neighbor, and pulled away from the curb, hoping his jumbled senses would guide him in the right direction. He had a few suspects, but none of them seemed right. Logic landed on the side of Gerald’s wife, Cheryl, and her boyfriend, Darrel Bogner. However, there was no getting around Laura Bradford being somehow in with the mix. The list also included Shane Conley, Terri Benson, Angela Gardner, and, not to be forgotten, Professor David Stephens.

Elliot kept driving, making the turns necessary to get to Highway 64, working mostly on intuition, which was telling him to check out the artifact.

Elliot headed west to Gilcrease Road, exited and drove north until he reached the museum the road was named after.

Inside, he approached the information desk where an elderly gentleman looked up and smiled. “Welcome to Gilcrease. Could I direct you to a certain area, or answer any questions?”

“I need to speak to someone,” Elliot said, “who could help me identify a Native American artifact.”

“Artifacts you say? I suspect that’d be Doctor Cramer. Have an appointment, do you?”

“No appointment. I just dropped by.”

The museum worker rubbed his chin. “Doctor Cramer doesn’t usually have folks just dropping by. Who should I say is calling?”

“The name is Elliot.”

“Elliot, is it? Well, let me see what I can do.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Not long after speaking with the guy at reception, Elliot sat in the office of Doctor Cramer, who seemed interested though quite nervous about the nature of the visit. Finally he folded his hands and leaned forward. “Are you a collector, Mr. Elliot?”