The Laura Cardinal Novels (57 page)

Laura had a pre-lunch meeting with Bobby Burdette’s parole officer—pre-lunch because he kept looking at the clock of his tiny gray cubicle and mentioning how hungry he was. He had little to offer except an unflattering mugshot of Bobby, his current address, reports he photocopied for her with considerable reluctance, and a piece of advice. Clasping his hands over his prodigious paunch, he swiveled back and forth in his chair and regarded her sadly. “Whatever you do, don’t get him riled. He doesn’t like women, and you seriously don’t want to cross this guy.”

Laura went by Bobby Burdette’s house, a cheap but neat, gray clapboard house on Edison near Seventh Street. Two big box elders dominating the dirt yard surrounded by the ubiquitous chain-link. An aluminum johnboat sat beside the short cinder driveway under a portable carport—white cloth stretched into a pitched metal frame. Laura didn’t see an outboard motor, but from the marks on the boat, assumed there was one somewhere, maybe in the metal shed nearby. Boat fuel, too. Hopefully, she could come back and take a good look later, if things went well and she got a warrant.

She debated leaving her card in his screen door, but decided she would rather make it a surprise.

A call to the Goodness Bread bakery depot headquartered in Flagstaff yielded the information that Bobby Burdette was a relief driver for a route franchise that covered Kingman, Williams, and the outskirts of western Flagstaff—that whole stretch of I-40. In a stroke of good luck, he was currently just up the street unloading baked goods at the Williams Safeway. Laura found him in the bread section, unloading hot dog buns from plastic bakery baskets stacked up on a fifteen-foot-high rack. As she approached, he paused to add up something on a machine that looked like a cross between a clipboard and a calculator.

Laura lingered at the other end of the aisle in the greeting card section, getting a good look at him.

He looked like his mugshot. Thin and seedy-looking, the same dead look in his eyes. His hair was solid black and clipped military-short. His naturally dark skin had been damaged by the sun. He was shorter than she imagined. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and dark purple tie, putty-colored slacks over work boots. The short-sleeved shirt barely cut off the tattoo of an eagle, poorly rendered. It looked like a jail tat.

She watched him work. His movements were smooth and precise; no action wasted. A good worker.

Laura tried to picture him with Shana, though—hard to do. Hard, too, to see him through Shana’s eyes, what he might represent to her. He was older, so maybe it was a father thing. But this guy didn’t seem anything like Chuck Yates, at least not in looks.

She hung back, thinking about how she wanted to play it.

Straight. She cleared her throat. “Are you Robert Burdette?”

He stopped mid-rustle, cocked his head at her. She saw that his eyes were dark brown and the irises seemed to jiggle. “Who wants to know?”

“Laura Cardinal, Department of Public Safety.” She pushed back her light jacket so he could see the shield hooked to her belt.

“Let me see that.”

Laura handed it to him and he studied it, eyes darting back and forth—little tiny shudders. Some kind of physical problem? Or drugs. Taking his time. She wondered if he had problems reading. Finally he handed it back to her. “This about Dan Yates?”

“I understand you came back from Las Vegas with Shana.”

He moved a step closer to her, his shoe squeaking on linoleum, and Laura took a step back, freeing up her body in case she needed her weapon.

He saw that and smiled, knowing why she did it. In no way intimidated. “I did come back with Shana, then I turned right around and went back to Kingman. Had to be in bed early because I had to get to the bakery outlet by four a.m.”

“Long drive, isn’t it?”

He kicked his toe lightly into the side of the cart. “I’m used to long drives.”

“Why did you come back with her?”

“I wanted to give the lovebirds some time alone.” The way he said “lovebirds,” it could have been something nasty. Still standing close, his chin tipped up so he could look her in the eye. “Plus, Shana and Kellee didn’t get along that well, had a little tiff about something. You know how
that
can be. So I volunteered to take her back and drop her off.”

“Have you seen her lately?”

“No. Should I?”

Trying to intimidate her, put her on the defensive. Clear to her that Bobby Burdette had done time.

“No reason,” Laura said, purposely lowering his voice so he had to listen to her. “Except that her brother’s dead and you have a relationship with her.”

“Is that what she said? We have a relationship?”

“Am I wrong, sir?”

He shook his head as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing. Those jumping-bean eyes fixed on her; hard to look at. “In her head, we do.”

“What are you saying? You and she—”

“Shana thinks it’s more than it is. I’m not saying we haven’t had our fun—but even that wears thin after a while. There’s nothing there, you know?”

Laura asked,“How’d you two meet?”

“I don’t see that’s any business of yours.”

“In the Earth Warriors?”

For just an instant his hard-shell eyes flickered. “What’s that?”

“An ecoterrorist group. You heard about those SUVs burned at a car dealership here in town a couple of months ago?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Did you know Dan well?”

“Not really.”

“How about Kellee?”

“Nope.”

“But you were a witness at their wedding.”

“Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

Laura tried another tack. “Is Shana into the environment?”

He shrugged, his eyes shutting down.

He was not going to tell her anything. She debated asking him where Shana was now, but her instinct told her not to. She didn’t trust anything he said, and if he didn’t know Shana had taken off, Laura didn’t want to be the one to tell him.

“Look, I’ve got to be in Kingman by two. It’s noon now.” He motioned to the half-filled rack. “I’ve got a living to make.”

Laura handed him her card. “If you have anything more to share, you can call my mobile.”

“Like what?”

“Anything—maybe something you forgot about Dan and Kellee.”

As she turned away, she heard him snicker.

A block away, on Seventh Street, was Jimmy Davis Ford. Half the lot was taken up by humongous sport-utility vehicles, most of them navy blue, black, or tan. Triangular flags shivered on lines stretched around the lot—red, white and blue, to go with the large flag high up on a pole next to the office.

Laura was looking for Dave Lonigan, the assistant manager. He had been the one who first saw the fire from his home and called the fire department. According to his account, the SUVs were engulfed in flames by the time he reached the dealership.

An overweight, thirtyish man with wren-brown hair and plain features approached her. Kmart shirt and tie combo, small gold name tag that said, DAVE LONIGAN.

“May I help you, ma’am?” he asked.

She introduced herself. “Is there a place we can talk?”

“Sure.” He led the way into the showroom, mostly plate glass, past another shiny black behemoth and into a small office that barely held a desk and two chairs. Lots of olives and purples, fabric walls.

Laura asked him several questions about the SUV arson, and he answered her patiently, although he kept one eye on the parking lot. It must have been her day for swivelers; he swiveled back and forth in his purple chair and tapped the pencil of his pen and pencil set against the blotter, a closet drummer. He basically told her things she already knew from the report.

“You were first on the scene?”

“I saw the glow—I only live a few blocks from here.”

Everybody lived a few blocks away from everybody else in this town.

“I called 911, and then I jumped in the car and headed over there.”

“Did you know it was the dealership?”

“I had a pretty strong feeling.”

“Why was that?”

Swivel. “Location—where the fire was coming from. And—” He reached into the top desk drawer, withdrew a sheet of paper, and pushed it across the desk at her with a flourish that she suspected he used to get people to sign on the dotted line. Laura noticed he wore a Williams High School class ring and had manicured nails.

She looked at the paper, a photocopy. It was a memo from Jimmy R. Davis, the owner himself, warning his employees to report anything or anyone suspicious on the grounds.

“Somebody sent Mr. Davis a note basically threatening to do something like this,” Dave Lonigan said.

“Do you have a copy of the note?”

“No, ma’am. Mr. Davis does, but he’s not here right now.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s got another dealership in Pinetop. He’s there right now.”

Laura made note of that.

Dave Lonigan’s sharp eye caught a potential customer looking at a new Mustang. “Is that all?” he asked.

“For now.”

They both stood up, Lonigan eager to get out there. She followed him through the door, saw him stride in the direction of the lone woman. The woman took one look at him, made an about-face, and hurried to her car.

Lonigan stopped, looking resigned.

“That happen often?”

“With women it does. Some of them like to poke around for a while without anyone looking, get their bearings first.”He shook his head. “She didn’t look like the type, but who knows?” He looked at her. “You’re investigating Dan Yates’s murder, am I right?”

She nodded.

“Does that have anything to do with this? The arson?”

Laura was about to answer when he added, “The reason I asked, Dan Yates was here not two weeks ago, asking me about the same thing.”

“Dan Yates was?”

“Yes, ma’am. He wanted to talk to Mr. Davis. I think he wanted to see the note Mr. Davis got.”

“Do you know if he got to see him?”

“Not really. Mr. Davis wasn’t here, but he could have come back.”

Laura had put away her memo pad, but brought it back out again, turned a fresh page. “What did he say to you exactly?”

“He just wanted to know about the fire. He asked if we had any warning, and I told him we did. You don’t think someone shot him because of this?”

She ignored that. “Did he say anything else?”

“No. I had a customer.”

“What was his demeanor like?”

“He seemed, I don’t know, grim? Determined. Come to think of it, I bet he
did
talk to Mr. Davis. He had that look in his eye like nothing was going to get in his way.”

Tickled Pink, a clothing boutique on Aspen Street in downtown Flagstaff, was squeezed in between two other shops in a row of storefronts. The store on the right was called the Cliff’s Edge, an outdoor/sporting goods store catering to mountain climbers. The shop on the left was a soda fountain, tourists wearing shorts and flip-flops on this Indian summer day. Laura noticed a whole crew of girls about nine or ten years old, taking up the four wrought-iron tables and ice-cream-parlor chairs, chattering animatedly. Most of them wore tights and leotards under short skirts that barely skimmed their behinds. The girls who were standing seemed to naturally splay their feet out. They had unusual grace; most of them slim but not haggard. Hair pulled back. From their name tags Laura assumed they were part of a dance class on an outing, probably at NAU. There were also several women Laura assumed were their mothers, in their thirties and forties, looking like older versions of their daughters.

In between the young dancers and the specialized clientele of the Cliff’s Edge, the Tickled Pink staked out its own territory.

In the windows were translucent mannequins wearing pink—tank tops, low-riders, mini-skirts. All shades of pink interspersed with other colors in paisleys, plaids and flowers. One of the short skirts flying above the waist, in a racier version of Marilyn Monroe on the grate.

Everything that wasn’t translucent pink was mirrored, creating the effect of a hall of mirrors at a carnival. It gave Laura a headache.

According to her roommate, Heather Olson was supposed to be working today. A college-age girl sat behind a tall counter, wearing a pink blouse that that showed off a large bust. Laura wondered if wearing pink was a requirement of the job. The girl’s face was pretty but forgettable, her dark hair parted in the middle, healthy and shiny as a seal’s coat.

She held up pink-lensed cardboard glasses. “Want to wear these? They make everything pinker.”

“That’s the last thing I want.” Laura glanced around the store. Empty. Maybe this place wasn’t as cool as advertised. “I’m looking for Heather Olson.”

“That’s me.”

Laura approached, showed her shield.

Heather’s expression changed to pained. “Is this about Dan?”

“About Dan and Shana. Has Shana contacted you?”

“No.”

Something about the way she said it. A coolness?

“I understand you’re a friend of Shana’s?”

“Actually, I’m not.” Her voice a little high, her breath a little quicker. Not agitated, but it was clear that Shana’s name affected her—adversely.

“You’re not friends? I got the impression you were.”

“How’d that happen?”

“Her mother gave me a list of six or seven or her closest friends.”

“I doubt she’s got
one
friend, let alone six.”

That surprised her. “But you were friends, right?”

“In high school.”

“Is there anybody you can think of who she’d go see if she were in trouble?”

Heather jumped on that like a pouncing cat. “She’s in trouble?”

“I’m not saying that. She’s certainly upset over her brother’s death. I just need to talk to her.”

“God, that’s awful about Dan. He was such a good guy.”

“But Shana wasn’t so great?”

“She’s a backstabber.”

“She backstabbed you?”

“Me and everybody else.”

“Can you tell me what it was about?”

“Oh, why not? There was this guy I really liked. She knew how I felt about him, but she went after him anyway. Even though she was living with someone—”

“The someone she was living with, was that her husband Ronnie?”