The Laura Cardinal Novels (22 page)

“I wanted to talk to you about your composite.” Laura showed him the one she’d printed up from the TalentFish site. “Do you remember when you had these taken?”

He leaned close. She could smell his aftershave and a dash of garlic, probably from the plates he handled. Giving her his best smoldering look. “Last year some time. I had some old shots that didn’t really represent what I look like now, so I needed to update them.”

“You worked with a photographer affiliated with the agency? One of these?” She handed him the slip marked “From the Desk of Myrna Gorman”.

He tapped the third name on the list. “Jimmy. Yeah. He gave me a good price. What’s this about?”

He seemed truthful. Impinging on her space, though, trying to make a conquest. Too concerned with his own image to think about anybody else.

She told him how she came across his picture.

He stared at her, his seduction forgotten. “You mean someone used my photograph on the Internet? Pretended they were me?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“Oh man! If they found out at TalentFish, I could be blacklisted!”

“That’s one of the ramifications, yes,” Laura said dryly. “Besides two dead girls.”

He stared at his feet. “I can’t believe this.”

“This Jimmy. What do you know about him?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. He was just some guy Strand recommended.”

“Do you remember what he looked like?”

“Average. Kind of … insignificant.”

“He gave you that impression? That he was insignificant? Why was that?”

“I don’t know. He was kind of short. Not good-looking.”

Not good-looking. In Peter Dorrance’s world, that probably had greater significance than the Mason-Dixon line.

“What about his coloring?”

“God, I can’t remember.” He wanted to be helpful, though, so he added, “I think his card said he lived in Apalach.”

“Where’d you take the photos?”

He pointed across the vacant lot. “That yellow house. Belongs to the owner.” He nodded at Bennies. “Good guy, always looking out for his employees. He even drove the car out so I could pose with it." He shook his head. “Nice wheels. I didn’t even want to lean against it, afraid I’d hurt the paint job.”

“Was that his idea or yours?”

“Steve’s? Oh, you mean the photog. It was his idea. He must have took ten, fifteen rolls.”

“Is that unusual—that many?”

“I thought I was getting a really great deal. He said it was a special because he wanted to make his name as a fashion photog.”

In Panama City? Laura thought.

“I only paid him two hundred dollars. Not that that’s chump change, but for everything he did, it was a great deal. We must have been out there three or four hours. I went through a whole bunch of clothes.”

“This exchange—“ Laura showed him the phone number. “That’s in Apalachicola?”

“I think so.”

“Anything else you can remember about him? What did he drive?”

“I can’t remember … wait a minute. It was an old beat-up truck. I remember because he parked it way down the road so it wouldn’t get in the shots. So this is identity theft, right?”

“I’d say so." She circled her cell phone number and handed him her card. “If you can think of anything else about that day, or what he said or did, anything at all, please call me.”

She started down the steps.

He called out after her. “You think I have enough for a lawsuit?”

“You’re going to have to stand in line,” she said.

The moon was up when Laura drove into Apalachicola. As she came off the curve of the Gorrie Street Bridge into town, she spotted the massive hotel she’d noticed on the way out. The Gibson Inn, blue clapboard with white trim, had wraparound galleries populated with Adirondack chairs. The inn looked like a riverboat all lit up and ready to steam away.

She parked out front and went in. Cigarette smoke lingered with the potted palms and plush Victorian furnishings of the lobby. A tabby cat lounged on the desk, partially covering the bell with her paunch. Laura stroked the cat and asked for a nonsmoking room. She paid with her own money. The woman at the desk led her upstairs to a nautical-themed room with wooden shutters and a king-sized bed.

For a moment she thought about Tom Lightfoot. Felt this overwhelming desire to have him here with her, a pair of lovers on vacation, having fun.

But this wasn’t a vacation. If the photographer, Jimmy, didn’t pan out, she’d go home empty-handed.

Unpacking didn’t take long—putting away her other suit, two sets of casual clothes, a small makeup case, toothbrush, pajamas. Her gun, her protective Kevlar vest, Jessica Parris’s murder book she had compiled so far.

Then she called Jimmy de Seroux. The phone rang ten times, no answering machine.

She had to make another phone call, which couldn’t be put off. She reached the dispatcher at Apalachicola PD and left a short message, asking for an appointment with the chief.

“Just come by tomorrow anytime,” said the dispatcher. She promised to pass on Laura’s message.

Laura did this as a courtesy, although she had mixed feelings about contacting them. Jimmy de Seroux could be a dead end. Still, she didn’t want word to get back that she had been asking questions around town.

Which it surely would. Laura had lots of experience with small towns.

After dinner in town, Laura took a glass of red wine from the bar out onto the porch. The air, which had been so heavy and hot during the day, was leavened by a breeze from Apalachicola Bay. She could smell the fecund richness of the bay, the sea life.

The waitress came out and asked her if she needed anything.

“Have you lived here long?”

“Grew up in Port St. Joe.”

“Do you know a man named Jimmy de Seroux?”

“Dot would know.” She nodded to the bar. “She’s the bartender.”

There were only a few people inside. The middle-aged woman wiping down the bar looked up and smiled.

“Jimmy? Of course I know him. What’s he up to? Haven’t seen him in a coon’s age.”

“I heard he’s a photographer and he lives somewhere around here.”

“I didn’t know that. Photographer, huh? Must be one of those multi-talented people." She sighed. “Some people get all the talent. The rest of us have to work for a living." She flicked a dishrag over the polished bar top.

Laura said, “He does something besides photography?”

Dot pointed at a autographed photo above the bar. “Jimmy used to play the piano here. Pretty good, too.”

Laura peered at the photograph. Hard to see in the dim light. She asked Dot if she would take it down, and Dot obliged, handing it to her.

Laura stared at the picture. She felt the skin of her scalp tighten.

She’d seen many photographs like it, mostly in bars: A black-and-white photo in a black frame, typical publicity shot. But this wasn’t any photo.

Looking into that face, Laura had a bad feeling—a visceral reaction rather than anything based on logic.

If she’d glanced at the photo on the wall in a dark bar, she wouldn’t have looked twice. The guy wasn’t attractive. He wasn’t even interesting. Just an average guy, mid-thirties, pale face and narrow mouth. The distance between nose and mouth was long and simian, like Homer Simpson. Wispy hair on the longish side, combed across a domed forehead. A white short-sleeved shirt that would have gone well with a pocket protector. He looked soft, almost effeminate—harmless.

He looked like a lot of people. The kind of person you’ve seen before, but couldn’t place.

But his eyes were dead.

Dot ducked back behind the bar and snapped down a business card on the bar. “I knew I had it somewhere,” she said triumphantly. “People are always leaving their cards with us.”

The card said “JIMMY DE SEROUX
Photographer
Musician
Piano Lessons
Piano Tuning." An address, a phone number, and an e-mail address.

“He gives piano lessons to kids?”

“Oh yeah. My neighbor’s daughter studied with him for a while. I went to her recital. They had it at the Elks Hall.”

A pedophile who had access to children through his job. A man who could play a wedding or photograph one. A mild, unassuming little guy.

She looked at the eyes again. Dull. As if she were looking at them instead of into them, not even a pinpoint of light to show the way to his soul.

She had seen him somewhere. Maybe in one of the photographs she’d taken on Brewery Gulch near the crime scene.

“Is this address close to here?”

“Just go west on C, that’s the street right out front, and you’ll run right into 15th Street.”

Laura glanced around. The other two patrons were gone, and she and Dot were alone. “How long since he last played here?”

“A few months ago, at least.”

“Can you remember when the recital was?”

“What is this?”

Laura produced her badge and ID.

“I don’t have to talk to you.”

“I know, but I wish you would.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing, that I know of. He’s one of many people we’re looking at who might know something about a crime in Arizona.”

“What kind of crime?”

“Do you mind if I ask the questions at the moment? I promise I’ll tell you what I know if you’ll just humor me.”

Dot’s eyes darkened. Definitely hostile.

Laura asked, “At the recital. Did he spend a lot of time with the girls?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he enjoy their company more than that of adults? Did you notice anything like that?”

Dot’s mouth flatlined. “You’ve got it all wrong. That doesn’t sound like Jimmy at all.”

“You may be right. But why don’t you think it sounds like Jimmy?”

“He’s … it’s hard to explain. You don’t know what he looks like in person. He’s kind of small. You ever read that story about Walter Mitty? He’s like that. And respectful of women.”

“How do you mean?”

“He was raised up right. You can tell. He’s almost old-fashioned—giving up his seat at the bar when the place is full or opening the door, just a bunch of ways.”

“Do you know his family?”

“No.” She took a deep breath. “All I know is he minds his own business, and I can’t see him wanting to hurt little girls. It just doesn’t fit the kind of person he is.”

Laura thought Jimmy de Seroux was precisely the type of man who would go after little girls.

Inadequate.

The windows of the twin-gabled Victorian cottage on Fifteenth Street were dark. The yard was overgrown and leaves from the enormous live oak out front littered the roof. Wild vines snarled and matted the screened-in porch, as dark and secretive as the night surrounding it.

Hand near her weapon, Laura stepped into the porch and knocked on the door. She expected and got no answer. Although the place was neat and had been kept up, it had an abandoned feel to it, as if its owner had been gone for a while.

A breeze blew, heavily laden with the smell of the gulf, and a few acorns pelted the walk. Grass grew between the cracks.

He wasn’t here. The feeling Laura had about Jimmy de Seroux solidified. He hadn’t been here in a long time. Months maybe.

She glanced around. The house next door was boarded up. The rest of the street was quiet, a mixture of large houses and small. A few porch lights were on. But nobody looking out their windows, nobody on their front porches, no one driving by. It was too hot, even at this time of night.

Laura walked along the side of the house, peering at the windows. Most of them were draped, but she could see through the back door into the kitchen. She flashed her light, holding her hand over the top to keep the glare down.

Yellow linoleum. Honey-maple cabinets. Very neat. A Felix the Cat clock on the wall.

She closed her eyes. Smelled the fecund earth, growing things. The slight mildew smell of the concrete. She tried to absorb the vibrations of the place, put herself into his place.

She knew he was gone. Traveling.

A breeze shifted the massive oak branches, their shadows playing over the crushed gypsum drive to the right of the lawn, bone-white against lush darkness. There was a cleared space beside the drive, scars on the grass where someone had parked.

An old truck sat inside a carport fashioned from banged-together wood and corrugated plastic sheeting. Parked behind the truck, was a smallish boat covered by a blue tarp. The truck fit Peter Dorrance’s description— a 1967 Chevrolet pickup. Blue, dented, and splotched with rust around the wheel wells.

She walked around and peered through the side window, which had been cracked a couple of inches. Old, but clean. None of the usual detritus you’d find in a car someone used a lot. Rain had gotten in; the seat covers were water-stained and wet leaves had drifted in through the crack in the window, sticking to the floorboards like tea leaves at the bottom of a cup.

Laura walked to the front and then the back of the truck. No license plate. She pulled on the latex gloves she always carried with her, reached through the passenger side window, and pulled up on the door handle. The door squeaked open. She paused, looked around, thinking how loud it sounded. Opened the glove compartment and shined her light in. A tire gauge, a few maps, registration two years old. The maps were for Georgia, Alabama, and Florida. Buried among the change and paper clips was one of those cards where if you get it stamped ten times you get a free meal. A Port St. Joe address. This card was for the Zebra Island Trading Post and Raw Bar in Port St. Joe. It had been stamped eight times.

He was a regular there.

Jimmy de Seroux was a pianist, which could mean he played piano at the Zebra Island Trading Post and Raw Bar. Someone to talk to.

She started back down the driveway and stopped at the place on the grass next to the driveway where someone had parked. Tire tracks that had sunk deep into the ground and dried that way.

They belonged to a heavy vehicle. They looked familiar.

Laura memorized the tread style and walked back to the pickup and looked at its tires.

The treads on the truck were different. Something else had been parked here on the berm. Something bigger, like the tracks on West Boulevard.