Strangers (6 page)

“I appreciate the effort.”

“Likewise yours,” he said, and blew out his breath again. “I just wish the outlook was less grim. For Cody's sake, and for his mother's.”

 

5

In the car I spent some time reading through Parfrey's file and comparing the data it contained to the notes I'd taken to date. The file was thin, as I'd expected, but reasonably thorough. Names, addresses, brief biographical notes and reports of Parfrey's interviews with Cody Hatcher and various other individuals, copies of the sheriff's probable cause declaration and other paperwork, and clippings of news stories from the weekly
Mineral Springs Miner
about the rapes and Cody's arrest.

Many of the facts I had already gotten from Cheryl and Parfrey, but some of the details were new. The circumstances of the three rapes were nearly identical—late-night break-ins by masked intruder, whispered threats and in the one case a minor wound inflicted by hunting knife, “simple” sexual assault (simple meaning vaginal penetration only, no sodomy or oral copulation), and then rapid flight. In all three cases, entrance and exit had been through doors and windows that were either left unlocked or easily and quietly breached. The perp had also stolen small amounts of money and other valuables from the victims' bedrooms; he hadn't wasted any time ransacking the homes before making his getaways.

The three women were of different ages, ethnic backgrounds, and according to Parfrey's notes, physical types. The first: Haiwee Allen, age 41, Native American of Shoshone heritage; widowed, no children; occupation: crafts maker. The second: Estella Guiterrez, age 33, Latina born in Mexico, emigrated to the U.S. with her husband nine years ago; married, husband employed at the Eastwell Mine #2, one child, eleven years old, away on an overnight visit with a friend at the time of the rape; occupation: cleaning woman. The third: Margaret Simmons, 54, Caucasian; married, husband employed at the Hammersmith Mine, two grown children living out of state; occupation: auto parts store clerk.

So it was pretty clear that the rapist, whoever he was, didn't care who or how old his victims were or what they looked like. Power, control, and hatred were his motivators, the objects of his mania women he knew would be alone and their homes vulnerable. How he came by that information was anybody's guess. But this was a small town where a lot of things were either common knowledge or easily discovered. It would not have taken much in the way of observation or checking for the perp to find out what he wanted to know and then to make his picks and his plans.

All right. So now I had sufficient information to begin a cautious investigation, but no matter whom I talked to or how I went about it, I would be working half-blind against stacked odds—still, and for the duration, a stranger in a strange land. Where to start? Max Stendreyer was at or near the top of the list of people to talk to, but before I did that I needed a better handle on Cody Hatcher's relationship with him. One of Cody's friends ought to be willing to open up to me, once I made it clear that I was here to try to help him.

Start with the one closest to him, then—his twenty-year-old girlfriend, Alana Farmer.

*   *   *

The Sunshine Hair Salon, where Alana Farmer worked part-time as a stylist, turned out to be in a strip mall a couple of blocks off Main Street. When I walked in there I got an openly curious, slightly suspicious once-over from the three hairdressers and two customers present. All of them were women; it was obvious that men didn't often invade this place with its mixed odors of chemicals and shampoo sweetness, and the fact that I was a long-in-the-tooth stranger made my presence even more suspect.

I put on a smile that none of them answered in kind and asked for Alana Farmer. The willowy young blonde sitting alone in the middle cubicle stood up, frowning. “I'm Alana. You want a haircut?”

“No. A few minutes of your time, if you're not busy.”

One of the other stylists, an older woman with frizzy orange hair, said to me, “If you're a salesman, I'm the owner and the person to talk to.”

“I'm not a salesman,” I said. “Private matter with Ms. Farmer.”

The girl said warily, “I don't know you.”

“I'm a friend of Cheryl Hatcher.”

The atmosphere in there cooled noticeably. The other four women stood or sat still except for slow back-and-forth swiveling of their heads between me and Alana Farmer like zombie spectators at a tennis match. Nobody said anything.

I kept looking at Alana. “It's important, Ms. Farmer. I won't keep you long.”

She stood chewing on her lower lip and fidgeting with a styling brush, trying to make up her mind. Finally she said, “All right,” cast a mildly insolent look at the orange-haired owner, and walked past me and out through the front door. I said, “Ladies,” to the others and followed the girl, the muscles on my back rippling from the combined effect of four laser stares.

Alana was leaning against the wall beyond the shop's front window, out of sight of the prying eyes inside, her arms crossed over her substantial chest. She gave me a wary look, but with her chin up aggressively, as I stepped around in front of her. Pretty enough, but wearing too much mascara, eye shadow, lipstick; her mouth was a glistening red O in the pale morning sunlight.

There was a sharp, chilly wind today, blowing down across the desert wastes from the north. “Pretty cold out here,” I said. “We can talk in my car if you like.” I gestured to where it was parked nearby.

Her mouth quirked and she shook her head. “Stay right here. So what do you want?”

“To ask you a few questions about Cody Hatcher.”

“You know Cody?”

“No. I'm a friend of his mother, as I said inside. She asked me to try to help prove his innocence.”

“How? What're you, a lawyer or something?”

“Detective,” I said, and proved it with my ID.

She wasn't impressed. “Yeah, well, good luck. I won't hold my breath. Nobody can help him now—he's screwed and that's that.”

“There's always hope, Ms. Farmer. If he is innocent.”

“Sure he is, but everybody except me and his old lady and about five others believes he raped those women. You're not gonna find out anything to change anybody's mind, least of all our asshole sheriff.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Felix wants Cody to be guilty, that's why. He's had it in for him a long time. I wouldn't be surprised if he's the one who put that knife and mask in Cody's Jeep.”

“Why does the sheriff have it in for him?”

“Cody wouldn't ever take any crap from him. And Felix didn't like him hanging out with his dumb-ass nephew, kept saying Cody was a bad influence. One time when the three of us were together he stopped Cody for speeding and thought he smelled dope in the Jeep. If he'd found any, he'd've arrested Cody and me and let Jimmy go.”

“
Were
the three of you smoking dope?”

Alana gave me a wise look and didn't answer.

“The only reason I asked,” I said, “is Max Stendreyer.”

“That crazy old prick,” she said with heavy contempt. “If it weren't for him, Cody wouldn't be in jail right now.”

“You think Stendreyer lied about seeing him running away from the Oasis?”

“Well, he must've.”

“Why would he? Cody ever have trouble with him?”

“No. No reason he would.”

“I can think of one. Owing Stendreyer money.”

“Wrong. Why would he owe him money?”

“We both know why. Cody admitted buying pot from the man.”

“So what? Everybody smokes dope now and then.”

Sure. Everybody.

“And pays for it in advance around here,” she said. “Always.”

“All right. Then why would Stendreyer lie?”

“Maybe somebody paid him to, I don't know. All I know is Cody wasn't anywhere near the Oasis that night.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I know him, that's how. Better than anybody. Besides, me and him were together.”

“Only until midnight or so, from what I've been told.”

“More like twelve-thirty.” Pause while she swept a hand through her long blond hair. Then, defiantly, “And I mean we were
together,
you understand? Why would he want to go rape somebody right after we got it on twice out by Chimney Rock?
How
could he? I mean, he's not Superman.”

I could have given her the “rape is a crime of violence” speech, but it would not have been worth the effort. At her age and with her mind-set, sex would always be a primary motivator.

She said, “I told the sheriff that, but all he said was it didn't matter and I'd better not go around announcing it if I didn't want to ruin my reputation. As if I care what people think.”

“Were you and Cody alone together the entire evening?”

“Yeah. Well, except for Rick Firestone. He had a flat tire on his truck and no spare, so Cody picked him up after we got back from Chimney Rock.”

Rick Firestone. Another friend on the list I'd gotten from Parfrey's assistant. “Was Firestone with Cody when he dropped you off?”

“No.”

“Do you know if they got together afterward?”

“No. Ask Rick.”

“I'll do that. Did Cody often go driving around alone in the middle of the night? That's what he claims he was doing late that night.”

“Sometimes. If he says he was out driving alone, that's what he was doing. He likes to race, see how fast he can buck his Jeep on some of the old mining roads around here.”

The door to the Sunshine opened and the orange-haired proprietress stepped out. “Alana,” she called. “You'd better get back in here. Mrs. Jackson is due for her ten-fifteen.”

“Coming.” Then, half to me and half to herself when the orange head disappeared inside, “Bitch. Wonder she hasn't fired me yet for being Cody's girl. Probably will now if I don't get back inside.”

“Thanks for your time, Ms. Farmer,” I said. “And for being candid with me.”

She nodded, shrugged, started away. And then stopped and came back, close, to run her dark-eyed gaze over my face. “You look like you've been a detective a long time. You really think you can prove Cody's not a rapist?”

“I intend to give it my best shot.”

“Then I might as well be straight with you. But you better not tell anybody about this. I'll call you a liar if you do.”

“Anything you say is just between us.”

“All right. Cody and me bought some grass from that asshole Stendreyer a few times. But he won't sell on credit. You have to pay him cash in advance.”

“Then what? Go out to Lost Horse to pick it up, or he delivers it?”

“Delivers it. He doesn't let anybody go out to his place. There's this spot in the desert, never mind where. You want some grass, you leave a note telling him how much you want and the cash. Then you go back in a day or two and the grass is there.”

“Where does he get it?”

“Who knows? Cody says he buys it from somebody in Mexico, but that's just a guess.”

“Anything else you can tell me about him?”

“No.”

“Do you know any of his other customers?”

“No,” she said again, too quickly. She glanced away from me, toward my car. “You going out to see Stendreyer?”

“Eventually, yes.”

“Better be careful. And get yourself another set of wheels before you go, four-wheel drive or all-terrain. Road out to Lost Horse'll tear up that city car of yours.”

“I'll do that. Thanks.”

“Okay. So that's it. I have to get back inside if I want to keep my crappy job.”

“Can I talk to you again if necessary?”

“If necessary,” she said, and she was gone.

*   *   *

High Desert Auto Repair and Towing, where Rick Firestone worked as a mechanic and tow-truck driver, was on the western outskirts of town. He was away on a call when I got there, but one of the other employees said he'd be back soon, so I waited. Short wait: a big yellow wrecker wheeled into the station ten minutes later and disgorged a rangy, overall-clad kid with long black hair and dim little eyes.

Firestone was wary of me at first, closed off the way a lot of young people are when confronted by an older authority figure. I had the feeling that letting him know I was detective would close him off completely, so I said only that I was working with Cody Hatcher's lawyer. That was the right way to handle it. Firestone relaxed, admitted readily enough to being in Cody's corner, and agreed to talk to me.

“But I got to get back on the job,” he said after a glance at an Omega chronograph on his wrist. “Talk while I'm working, okay?”

I said okay and followed him into the body shop, where he did some hammering on the undercarriage of an old, hoist-raised pickup, his mouth open an inch or two the entire time even when words weren't coming out of it. Like a Venus flytrap waiting to be fed, I thought. And with not many more brain cells.

“Yeah, Cody give me a ride the night that old woman in the Oasis got poked,” he said. “I had a damn flat tire and my spare'd gone flat, too. Good thing Cody and Alana were around or I'd of had to walk all the way home.”

“Where did that happen, the flat tire?”

“Huh? Oh, out by Eldorado Park, edge of town.”

“And that's where they picked you up?”

“Yeah. They just come back from Chimney Rock.” Firestone grinned, a simpleton's grin with his mouth open the way it was. “Man, you could smell what they been doin' out there.”

“Smoking dope?”

“Huh? Nah, not that.” He made a back-and-forth pumping gesture with his arm. “You know, whap, whap, whap.”

I let that pass. “Did you see Cody again that night?”

“No. I went straight to my place. I wish I'd of gone with him after he took Alana home. Then they couldn't say he done it.”