Rage (48 page)

Milo
went into the bedroom and I joined him. The desk sat to the left of the double
bed. Plain and rickety, painted brown, a thrift-shop piece that barely managed
to fit in Drew and Cherish Daney’s cramped sleeping chamber.

Milo
gloved up and checked the closet.

“His
duds are here, but hers aren’t. Looks like she packed up for the long haul.”

“And
he didn’t.”

“Ain’t
that thought-provoking.” He sidled over to the desk. The legs were wobbly and
the top slanted downward. A jam glass held pens and pencils. The green blotter
paper Cherish had used to frame her instructions was still there. One of its
corners was held in place by the box.

Gunmetal
safe-deposit box. Extra-large size, the kind banks offered preferred customers.

Milo
examined the lock, lifted the box, and inspected the bottom.

“Columbia
Savings stamp. They’ve been out of business for years.”

“Surplus,
like the school lockers,” I said. “They’re parsimonious.”

He
frowned. “All that county money and they’re living like this.”

“If
Valerie’s right, there was a lot of conflict about money. Maybe because Drew
was siphoning funds and stashing it away.”

“His
secret cache. That coulda been bullshit he gave the kid to impress her.”

“I’d
bet on reality. He had all the power right from the start with Valerie, didn’t
need to prove himself.” I pointed to the box.

He
set it down. Looked at the lock again. Examined his picks and selected one.
Lifting the box, he hefted. “Kinda light. Maybe Cherish found the dough, took
it, and split. The question is, Where’d
he
go with all his clothes still
here?”

“He
could’ve gotten to the money first. Picked up on Cherish’s suspicion, sensed
the walls closing in and left.”

“With
no clothes?”

“He
travels light. I’m thinking Vegas because he told Valerie that Cherish wanted
to go there.”

“The
old projection game? Yeah, Vegas would fit his style, easy for a scumbag to
blend in. Okay, enough conjecture. Gimme that.” Pocketing the burglar picks and
reaching for the crowbar.

He
wedged the point under the box’s lid and bore down. The lid popped up with no
resistance and threw him off balance. He fought for equilibrium and I had to
swerve to avoid being hit by the bar.

“She
left it unlocked,” he said.

“There’s
your invitation to search.”

* * *

First
came a gray felt cloth, the kind used to keep tarnish off silverware. No money
under that, but the box was half-full.

Milo
removed each object and placed it on the desk.

Nothing
that weighed much.

A
yellowed Stockton newspaper clipping, seven and a half years old. Local
coverage of Troy Turner’s murder in prison. Troy’s name underlined in red
pencil, along with a sentence connecting him to the Malley case. Kristal
Malley’s name double underlined.

A
pair of woman’s jade drop earrings.

“Any
guesses?” he said.

“Maybe
Lara’s.”

A
black hard-shell eyeglass case. Inside was half a blackened spoon, a cheap
lighter, and a crude syringe fashioned from an eyedropper, and a hypodermic
needle. Brown gunk soiled the glass. In the red velvet lining of the case, the
gold-lettered address of an optometrist on Alvarado.

Under
the address, a scrap of paper taped to the inside lid.

Property
of Maria Teresa Almedeira.

“Nestor’s
mother,” I said. “Nestor swiped it to house his works. After Daney killed him,
it became his souvenir.”

Milo
reached in the box again and drew out a flimsy knit blouse, royal blue with a
horizontal red stripe. Holding it aloft by the sleeves, he checked the label.
“Made in Malaysia, size S. This could also be Lara’s.”

I
said, “It’s Jane Hannabee’s. She was wearing it the day I met her at the jail.
Brand new. Weider was trying to pretty her up.”

“And
Daney deprettied her . . .” He examined the garment closely.
“Doesn’t look like any blood.”

“He
stabbed her in her sleep. She wouldn’t have worn something new. He wrapped her
back up in plastic, rummaged through her stuff, took a souvenir.”

“Okay,
if the earrings are Lara’s, maybe her mother can verify . . .
check this out.”

Photocopy
of a county document. Application to foster a child.

The
ward in question was a sixteen-year-old female named Miranda Melinda Shulte.
Drew and Cherish Daney had both signed the papers but they had never been sent
in.

“Number
seven,” I said.

Milo
rubbed his eyes. “There’s no evidence he killed any other girls. Why her,
Alex?”

“She’d
only been here a week, but Beth Scoggins described her as aggressive, moving in
on Beth’s queen-bee status. Daney needs them to be passive. Maybe she asserted
herself too much. Or she thought she wanted his attentions, but when the time
came, she resisted.”

“Not
playing the game,” he said. “There could be a family out there somewhere,
wondering.”

Or
even worse, there isn’t.

I
said, “When we find him, maybe we can learn where he buried her.”

“Love
your optimism.” He placed the foster form on the desk. Stared at it. Returned
to the box.

Pharmaceutical
bubble pack. Nine bubbles, seven of them empty. Two round, white pills, scored
diagonally. Stamped “Hoffman” atop the midline, “1” below it.

The
label on the pack said: Rohypnol, 1 mg (flunitrazepam).

“Party
pills,” I said.

Milo
said, “Next.”

Out
came Rand Duchay’s C.Y.A. I.D. tag. The photo showing Rand looking baffled.

Last,
at the bottom, a manila envelope not much larger than a playing card, fastened
by a string and eyelet. Milo’s gloved hands fumbled with the string. He cursed,
finally got the string uncoiled. Brought the envelope close to the desk and
shook it out carefully.

Out
tumbled a tiny bracelet. Square, white plastic cubes strung on a pink thread.

Seven
cubes. A letter on each.

K R I S T A L

L
ike the cement cube, the converted garage had a single
window. No larger than the cube, but with only two beds, it felt a lot more
spacious.

I
said, “Valerie, where did Drew keep his money? It’s important.”

She
sat on her bed, I was three feet away in a pink plastic chair.

Real
bed, not a bunk. Wood-grain headboard embossed with vines and flowers. Matching
chest of drawers with the same embellishment. A threadbare gray rug covered
most of the cement floor.

Particle
board partitions created a corner bathroom, complete with shower, shampoo,
hotel soaps, and lotions still sealed.

A
host of stuffed animals on Valerie’s bed. Monica’s bed, across the room, had
only a single blue teddy bear.

Clear
hierarchy. Lodgings for the preferred ward and her next-in-line. What reason
had Drew given Cherish? What had she been
thinking
?

Valerie’s
black hair was shiny-wet. She played with a towel that said
Sheraton
Universal.
Her eyes were pond pebbles.

I
said, “In a box? Did he keep his money in a gray metal box?”

The
pebbles rounded around the edges as she looked away. Constricted pupils. Her
hands danced on her knees.

“We
found the box, Valerie, but there was no money in it, so I guess Drew made all
that up.”

“No!
I saw it.”

“You
saw the money?”

She
avoided my eyes.

I
shrugged. “If you say so.”

“It
was there.”

“It’s
gone, now.”

“Bitch!”

“You
think Cherish took it.”

“She
stoled
it.”

“It
wasn’t hers?”

“
We
got it! At the nonprofits!”

Fire
in her eyes. Devotion. Beth Scoggins had recounted how Daney had turned off
after her abortion. It had been days since Valerie’s abortion and she believed Daney
still cared.

I
said, “Guess Cherish found where he hid it.”

Silence.

“How
do you think she found out?”

Shrug.

“No
idea at all, Valerie?”

“Cleaning.
Prolly.”

“Cleaning
where?”

She
got up, paced the length of the room, then the periphery. Passed Monica’s bed
and tucked in a corner of blanket.

Playing
housekeeper.

She
circled the room again.

“Cleaning
where?” I said. “If we’re going to find your money, we have to know where.”

She
stopped. Paced some more. Said something I couldn’t hear.

“What’s
that?”

Another
inaudible whisper.

I
walked over to her. “Where, Valerie?”

“Underneath.”

“Underneath
the house?”

Silence.

“Is
there really an underneath, Valerie?”

“Here!”
Running to her own bed and slapping the covers. Slapping them. Pounding them.
“I cleaned real good but she sneaked in!
Bitch!
”

* * *

I
returned her to Judy Weisvogel’s custody. Milo gave me a set of gloves and the
two of us moved the bed away from the corner. The cement floor bordering the
garage’s northern wall had been patched years ago, some sort of grayish sealant
slopped generously over cracks and crumbles. Grease spots shining through the
white evoked the room’s original function. In the corner, the sealant stain was
scored by four straightedge cuts. Shaped roughly like a square. Two foot square,
scoring the floor.

Flush
with the floor, no handle or protrusions, no way you’d notice if you weren’t
looking.

Cherish
Daney had noticed. There were all kinds of ways to houseclean.

Milo
got down and stared at the seams. “Pry marks.”

He
worked the crowbar into the spot. The slab pulled away easily. Underneath was a
dark space, three or so feet deep.

“Empty,”
said Milo. “No, I take that back . . .”

He
got down on the ground, stuck his arm in, brought out a dusty wooden case.

Smith
& Wesson
label inside the lid.
The bottom was foam with a form-fitted indentation. Revolver-shaped
indentation.

His
gloved finger prodded the foam. “Wonder who got lucky first.”

* * *

We
left the property, now cordoned by tape. Judy Weisvogel stood by the side of
the cube talking softly to Valerie. The girl twirled her hair and rocked from
foot to foot. Weisvogel took a tissue and dabbed Valerie’s eyes. As I passed,
Valerie’s eyes met mine and narrowed with contempt. She flipped me off. Judy
Weisvogel frowned and drew her away.

What
would Allison think about my technique?

What
did I think?

I
drove away, staying focused on a plastic baby bracelet.

Milo
said, “Looks like you made a fan, back there.”

“She’s
resentful Cherish entered the room. Furious at me for prying the information
out of her. Another violation of her turf.”

“Turf.
Like a little wife. Sick.”

“It’s
going to take a long time for her to realize what he did to her.”

“Oh,
yeah,” he said. “Your job’s tougher than mine.”

* * *

I got
on the freeway and pushed the Seville hard. “I think you’re clear on the
search. Cherish definitely wanted someone to find the souvenirs. She left the
box out for Wascomb, hoping he’d open it. Knew that even if he didn’t pry, he’d
eventually call the authorities and the truth would come out.”

“Don’t
think the truth means that much to her, Alex. She abandons those kids and
splits with all her clothes. Maybe with the money and the gun, too, unless Drew
got there first. Which, upon reflection, he probably did. Bad guy like that,
his nose for trouble would be good. For all we know, he’s already partying at
Caesar’s Palace, has himself a new identity.”

“Valerie
said he was called away to moonlight. At a church. You could try to find out
all the places he worked, see if his whereabouts can be traced. If the call was
righteous.”

“If?”
he said.

“There’s
the other possibility,” I said. “Cherish got the money and the gun. And Cherish
has a boyfriend.”

* * *

The
drive to Soledad Canyon took forty minutes. I parked a ways up the road and we
walked toward the campground. Milo unsnapped his gun but kept it holstered.