The Fear Collector (5 page)

At that moment, none of that mattered, of course. The woman on the other side of the door twisted the knob and spoke with the kind of anxiousness that was the hallmark of a mother in her position. She couldn’t fathom that the world had conspired to drag her down lower than she’d ever dreamed possible in the beautifully restored turn-of-the-century home in Tacoma’s Proctor district.

“You found her,” she said, stepping backwards as the door widened to let the detectives inside the foyer, a large space of gleaming mahogany trim.

“Ms. Lancaster?” Grace asked.

Catherine Lancaster gave a quick nod. “You found her,” she repeated.

“I’m Detective Alexander,” Grace said. Without allowing her eyes to move from Ms. Lancaster’s, she twisted a little toward her partner. “This is Detective Bateman.”

Paul Bateman nodded but, sticking to his word for a change, said nothing.

“You’ve found Lisa, haven’t you? She’s dead, isn’t she? My baby’s dead!”

“No. No, Ms. Lancaster, we haven’t found her.”

A brief look of relief came over Catherine Lancaster’s face, and she steadied herself. She led the detectives inside and motioned to a pair of chairs across from a sofa draped with an afghan. It was a large room, deceptively so. Most homes of that vintage were warrens, small spaces. This one was spacious.

The detective who had originally had the case had been injured in a car accident the previous evening—the night of the news telecast. Grace and Paul had taken the case—and the urgency that came with it—that morning. They explained the accident and how they’d be taking over.

“I hope you’re better at finding my daughter than he was,” Catherine said. “It has been four days, you know.”

Grace let the cutting remark slide. Detective Roger Goodman was an excellent investigator. His notes indicated that he had been following up the possibility that Lisa had left with a boyfriend.

Catherine offered coffee, but no one wanted any. They sat around the kitchen table, a refrigerator plastered with magnets and postcards was a chronicle of the family’s life—Disney, Grand Canyon, Hawaii. On the counter were shopping bags from Macy’s and Nordstrom and a shoebox. A chalkboard above the wall phone carried a message.

Lisa, let me know about Friday!

“We want to follow up on Marty Keillor, your daughter’s boyfriend. He left town the same day as Lisa.”

Catherine shook her head, an irritated look on her face.

“Look,” she said, “I told Detective Goodman that Marty was a good kid. They weren’t seeing each other anymore. They dated on and off for years, and when they finally broke up it was amicable. He came over here the day before yesterday.”

Grace had read the name in the report. “We’ve been looking for him. Why didn’t you let us know?”

“I did. I called it in to Detective Goodman,” Catherine said. “Left a message on the machine. I guess he was in the hospital already. Probably my hospital, too, but no one told me.”

“Where was Marty?” Paul asked.

“He and some buddies went over to Sun Lakes on the other side of the mountains, where there’s still some summer weather. They had no cell, no Internet. Marty had no idea Lisa was missing. He’s as devastated as I am.”

The sound of a car door slammed and footsteps made their way to the door.

As if on cue, it was Marty.

“He’s here right now. Talk to him.”

Catherine got up and opened the door. A handsome young man with dark hair and biceps that indicated daily curls embraced her. Lisa’s mother and former boyfriend hugged.

“Police,” Catherine said.

“Good,” the young man said, finally loosening his embrace as they walked across the living room to the kitchen.

Grace looked at Paul. The hug was a little strange—not the embrace of the heartbroken, but something else.

Marty Keillor slid into a seat. He was taller than Paul. His legs barely fit under the table. He wore a tight black V-neck T-shirt and dark washed Wranglers. On his snowshoe-sized feet were brand-new Carhartt boots.

The detectives introduced themselves to the former boyfriend.

The young man leaned across the table, his face full of concern.

“Where is she?” Marty asked.

“That’s what we want to know,” Paul said. “We thought maybe you could tell us something. Did you know we were looking for you?”

He shook his head. “How could I? There’s no cell service. I got the other cop’s messages, when we came over the pass. I came right over here. Didn’t I, Catherine?”

Catherine? Whatever happened to Ms. Lancaster?
Grace thought.

“Can anyone verify where you were when she went missing?” she asked.

“Yeah, like about fifty people. Huge party at Sun Lakes,” he said.

“Can you provide us with names, numbers, for any of the fifty, specifically?”

Catherine spoke up. “I don’t like where this is going,” she said. “I can see that you’re trying to blame Marty for something here. That’s ludicrous.”

“Maybe. But it is routine, Ms. Lancaster,” Grace said.

Marty glanced over at Catherine, then back at the detectives. “No problem. I get it. Missing girl—boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, gets dibs on being a person of interest.”

“If you have to investigate Marty, do it fast,” Catherine said, patting him on the arm. “He’s got nothing to do with this. He’s my support system and he’s a good one. I want you to find out who took Lisa.
Please.
Find out who took her and bring her home.”

Grace could feel the mother’s pain. Despite the odd vibes she was getting of something going on between the mother and former boyfriend, there could be no denying that Catherine Lancaster was in tremendous pain.

“We’re going to do our best,” Grace said.

“But to be fair, there isn’t much to go on,” Paul said.

“I’m sorry your detective got injured, but you better hope that his misfortune didn’t put my Lisa in greater danger. You better hope that big-time.”

The detectives handed over their business cards, promised open lines of communication, and took a list of names and cell numbers from Marty.

Detective Goodman had interviewed campus police at PLU—which yielded nothing. He made a note of a meeting with Naomi Carlyle, the girl who had likely been the last person to talk to Lisa before she’d disappeared.

“Let’s go see Naomi,” Grace said.

“Yeah,” Paul answered, as they got into the car. “Was it just me or did you get a weird feeling? Maybe something going on between those two?”

Grace started the car and looked at Paul.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “Did you notice the shoebox on the kitchen counter? Carhartt boots size thirteen.”

“No, so?”

“Marty was wearing brand-new Carhartts,” she said, backing into the street.

“Didn’t catch that,” he said. “Methinks they’ve been knocking those boots.”

Grace nodded. “Methinks that, too.”

Roger Goodman’s initial report indicated that Naomi worked at the Melting Pot. Since she wasn’t picking up the cell number they had for her, Grace and Paul drove down the hill toward the restaurant in Tacoma’s best stab at urban renewal—a slew of restaurants along Pacific Avenue not far from the Washington State History Museum and the Dale Chihuly–stuffed Museum of Glass. Grace and Shane had been to The Melting Pot a couple times before. It was an expensive fondue restaurant whose price point kept it in the “special occasion” category. On the drive down, Paul complained about Lynnette, his ex-wife, and Grace pretended to agree with everything he said. To disagree just meant more mind-numbing examples of why Lynnette Bateman was a complete bitch and control freak. Since she truly was, there was no point in getting that litany from her pissed-off former husband.

“You know,” Grace said, “Lynnette is my sergeant.”

“I know,” he said. “I feel sorry for you.”

“I appreciate that, Paul. But what I’m trying to say is I just can’t go there conversation-wise. I get what you’re saying. I trust your opinion. Can we just leave it like that?”

“Okay,” he said, his face a little red. “I just need someone to talk to. You know, she’s really messing up the custody deal.”

“You’re a good father,” Grace said. “It will work out.”

He looked out the window. “Hope so. I need my kid.”

Grace nodded. She pulled into a parking space behind The Melting Pot.

“Naomi drives a light blue VW,” she said, pulling into park.

“Yeah. That’s the one. Guess she’s working.”

Inside the restaurant they found Naomi Carlyle, front and center. She was an attractive young woman with long waves of blond hair and green eyes that flickered in the light of her workstation, the hostess podium.

After the detectives introduced themselves, the trio went to a quiet space in the back of the restaurant.

“I told the detective on the phone that I couldn’t think of anyplace Lisa would have gone. I mean, I can think of places she would like to go—Maui, for example. But I doubt that’s where she went. She would never have left that car of hers. She loved it. Plus, when you get right down to it that little bitch would have never gone anywhere good without me.”

“Little bitch? That’s kind of harsh,” Paul said.

Naomi laughed. “No. That’s just nickname we had at Stadium High. We were the little bitches—LBs. We ran that school.”

“I see. High school was a while ago,” Grace said. “You and Lisa have been close for a long time.”

“Yeah. Like sisters,” Naomi said. A waitress offered them water, but all three indicated no.

“Then you probably were around when she was dating Marty Keillor,” Paul said.

“Party Marty,” Naomi said. “Yeah, I was. The dude was fun but so wrong for her. He kept cheating on her. She’d break up. Go back to him. Break up again. You needed a tally sheet to figure out what their relationship was. Glad that’s over.”

“Was it a hard breakup?” Grace asked.

“No. Not really. I mean, look they had a yo-yo relationship. Each breakup and makeup was easy. By the end they were only a booty call anyway. What’s all this about Marty? He’s a dope, but he’d never hurt her. You should follow up on that capper she was talking to before she disappeared.”

“Capper?”

Naomi shrugged. “He had a broken leg or something. She was talking to me when she was going to her car and said she’d call me later, but I fell asleep. I never even looked to see if she called until the next day.”

“What did she say about the guy with the broken leg?”

“Just that he was a dork and she was going to help him. She used to be in a club that helped those people.”

“The ‘cappers,’ ” Paul said with obvious disdain for the young woman’s choice of words for handicapped individuals.

“Don’t be a judger,” she said, her eyes now icy. “Just do your job and find her.”

Grace cut the tension with a question. “What did she say about the guy?”

“Not much. She went to help him because he dropped his books. I guess some of our diversity training actually took root. I would have just let him struggle. I don’t believe in helping people who you don’t know.”

Naomi was a jerk, but she’d been the last one to talk to the vanished girl.

“Marty and Lisa’s mother seem very close,” Paul said.

Naomi shrugged. “I guess so. I’m sort of creeped out by the two of them.”

“Creeped out?”

“Yeah. There were a few times when I was over there in high school that I thought they were a little too close. I told Lisa and she didn’t care. She was just using Marty for his car anyway.”

* * *

Grace checked her messages when she and Paul returned to the car. None from the state crime lab. And thankfully, none from her mother. While the possibility was always out there that her sister’s remains would be discovered sometime, somewhere, Grace also knew that for many family members of the missing and presumed dead, there was never a final answer.

“Let’s go back to the office,” she said.

D
ismembering a human body was much harder than it appeared. It was messy, took considerable strength, and no matter how tough one thought he or she was, it took a very, very strong stomach to get the job done.

And yet, when the endeavor was part of the family business, there was no getting around it. It must be done.

The man looked down at his tool kit—knives, a handsaw, kitchen shears—and the oozing red that flowed like a sluggish river toward a rusted, hair-clogged basement drain.

He let out a sigh.

The
Saw
slasher films, the charming but bloody cable TV show
Dexter
, and assorted episodes of
Criminal Minds
had done him wrong. They’d not prepared him for the smell of torn human flesh. They’d done a poor job putting him in the picture to see what it felt like doing the necessary but nasty. He winced slightly as he moved the blade deeper into the widening crimson canyon of the dead woman’s abdomen. The vibration that came from a serrated blade against the impasse of a bone rankled him whenever the steel of the blade met one. Femurs were particularly resilient. He hated femurs because they called for the swinging of an axe.

Hoisting an axe overhead and driving it into his victim meant breaking a sweat.

He hated to sweat.

The young man had read everything he could on the subject, at least subjects that were parallel to what he was undertaking. He’d watched videos of hunters dismembering deer on YouTube. He’d even practiced on the turkey that his mother had served that Thanksgiving. It was a twenty-five-pound tom, fresh, not frozen.

A very uncooperative turkey at that.

“Poultry can be tricky. Aim for the joints,” his mother said, pulling all the air in the room through her cigarette. “The leg will come right off.”

He’d glared at her back then. Never a beauty, any looks she’d had were long gone. She was dour, with lifeless eyes. She had the kind of smoker’s mouth that looked more like a shrunken gash than a smile.

“Hmm,” she said, as the juices ran in the platter. “Might not be done,” she said, snuffing out her cigarette into raw giblets in the sink. “Looks red, not clear.”

He ignored her.

He liked red.