The Stranger You Seek (32 page)

“So.” I forced a smile. I was ready to talk about something else. “Tell me something about the new guy. Is it still serious?”

Diane laughed. “Still serious, but did I mention I’m seeing a woman?”

“Um, no. You left that part out.” I had known Diane since we were kids. I never had an inkling she was attracted to women. It wasn’t exactly like hearing that Michael Jackson had died, but it did prove that you absolutely never know who is going to pop out of the closet and shock the shit out of you. “Why didn’t you ever mention this?”

“It never came up,” Diane said, and I gave her an
oh sure
look. “Seriously. I don’t know what it is about her, but it’s about
her.
”

“I don’t know what to say. Do you say congratulations at a time like this?”

“That would be nice,” Diane said, smiling. She picked up the phone on her desk. “Ms. Haze, Keye Street is here for her appointment.”

“Well, then, congratulations.” I hugged her. “Movie or pizza night soon, okay? So you can tell me all about her?”

“Sure,” Diane said with a nod, and turned her attention to the work on her desk.

I followed the hand-woven wool runners through the lush reception area to Margaret Haze’s office, feeling guilty. Diane had wanted something from me. I just wasn’t sure what. Or if I even had it to give at the moment.

Haze stood and shook my hand. Behind her, the view from her windowed wall meandered south and east over suburbs and stretched across the city. CNN Center and Philips Arena to the right, Stone Mountain dead ahead twenty-five miles, Midtown’s towers on the left and I-75 heading north.

She was wearing Chanel pumps. Power shoes. I wanted them. With the light streaming in behind her, she was almost a silhouette. I’d rarely seen her in anything other than black. Everyone in Atlanta always seemed to be dressed for burgling.

I opened my briefcase and, once Margaret was seated, handed her everything I’d managed to dig up on the dead owner of Southern Towing, whose driver—Margaret’s client—had shot twenty-three times and, according to Margaret, in self-defense.

“You were right,” I told her. “He was a scary guy. Long record of assaults, jail time, three arrests, lots of bar fights. Friends and coworkers
say he beat his wife, he beat his kids, and sometimes he knocked his drivers around. Most everyone I talked to was afraid of him. His wife admitted that he had a temper but denies the beatings. I gave you copies of the hospital records. Four visits to the emergency room in two years. Cops have been out there six times on domestic disturbance calls. The guy was a bully. If he was coming at me, I would have used my weapon too.”

“I wouldn’t have taken the case if I believed my client was a murderer.”

“Uh-huh.”

Margaret smiled. “Careful, Keye, your bias is showing. Did all that time at the FBI turn you against criminal defense attorneys?”

It was my turn to smile, but also a very good time to remain silent. Something my mother always said about knowing who butters your bread.

Margaret looked at me for a moment, a slight flicker in her eyes, playful, nothing aggressive, just reading me. She then went back to the information I’d given her—neatly printed with times and dates, names, addresses, and statements, copies of the victim’s extensive criminal record, hospital records.

I waited while she read. I looked out the window, drank water, looked at the picture on her desk of her with her parents, and studied the artwork on her walls.

“Well, with his background, it shouldn’t be difficult to prove that he was dangerous, that my client feared for his life,” she told me. “Whether or not the judge will allow it is a different matter.” She was quiet for a moment, still reading. “I’ll need witness subpoenas on these people. Will you have any trouble serving them?”

“I don’t think so. Most of them will jump at the chance to testify to his character. Or lack of character. Not a lot of people in the community mourning this man your client murdered. Um, shot.”

“Excellent. I’ll have Diane call you once we’ve filed the paperwork.”

I
was sitting outside the Starbucks at 100 Peachtree, the old Equitable building, watching pigeons compete for popcorn in Woodruff Park.
Couriers and people with briefcases and telephones and serious expressions rushed by me. From the loading docks just around the corner, I heard shouted instructions and the distinctive sound a big truck makes when it’s braking.

Rauser plopped down in one of the metal chairs in front of me. He was twenty minutes late, wearing a suit and a light blue tie, which he tugged at as he sat down.

“You look nice,” I said. “Got a date?”

“With the press,” he answered. “I’ll be the one standing behind the chief keeping my mouth shut. We’re expecting a major leak in a few minutes.”

I smiled. “Amazing how these leaks happen.”

Rauser nodded. “Worked a deal with Monica Roberts after she ambushed us in the garage. Called her from the Dobbs scene and offered her first dibs, promised I’d confirm the suspect’s name and leak Charlie’s mug shot to her if she’d dump the footage of me and you together.”

“Smart,” I said.

“It’s not as self-serving as it sounds. Maybe someone else will recognize him and we can connect him to more of the victims. This is what we know. The courier firm he works for had both David Brooks and the other dead attorney, Elicia Richardson, on their client list. Their records show Charlie making several deliveries to each office. Courier companies all over serve these big law firms. We also found a self-storage warehouse near his town house where he leases a big unit, big enough for a car. Unit’s empty but the fluid on the concrete tells us there was a vehicle in there recently. He’s lost my guys a couple times now. We think he’s ducking into this maze of little warehouses, leaving his bike and driving out. We have it under surveillance. And the DA finally found a judge that would issue a search warrant.”

“You searched Charlie’s place?”

“Early this morning. Didn’t find a damn thing we can use. Circumstantial is piling up, but we got no knife, no blood, no pictures. This guy’s a murderer. We’ll get him. The special delivery to the Georgian is at the lab. Already matched the blood type, so we know it was Dobbs’s dick.
Jesus.
” I saw the pain in his face. “What’s left of the package is there too. Still hoping we can pull some DNA off it. I don’t know how he’s doing it, but we
will
get him.”

I touched his hand. “I know.”

He looked at my drink, ignoring my hand. “What’s that?”

“Chai tea latte, iced.”

“Thought that was some kind of martial art.”

“That’s tai chi,” I said, and smiled.

He took a long drink from my plastic cup without asking, then took a couple more gulps big enough to leave me with nothing but some milky ice. Then he burped and leaned back in the green metal chair, tipping the front legs off the ground.

“What?”
he said.

“I don’t even know why I like you sometimes,” I said. “You’re such a guy.”

He grinned at me and made some adjustments to his crotch area with enough flair so I had to notice.

“And mature too,” I added.

“So, what’s up with Dan?” Rauser asked suddenly. “You back together or what?”

“No, we are not back together nor will we ever be back together. He just wanted to get out of his apartment for a few days and figured he could use my place.”

“That why he’s walking around naked while we’re on the phone?”

“Oh my God, you’re jealous? That’s so cute.”

“Get real. I’m just trying to look after you a little. Traditionally, Dan hasn’t been a good investment.” We were silent for a few moments. “You know, I was in the station when we brought in the guy who killed his boss at the tow company,” he said. “That’s the case you’ve been working for Haze, right? His pupils were bugging out, smelled like booze. He emptied into him twenty-three times. It’s gotta blow, working for the defense on a case like that.”

“Pays the bills,” I said. I didn’t like thinking about it.

“That’s why I wouldn’t want to go private, you know? End up working for the bad guys most of the time. When I retire from this, that’s it.”

“If I waited for an honest client, I wouldn’t be able to buy the groceries.”

“That’s my point,” Rauser said. “And why I couldn’t do it. So now that you know how little I got on Wishbone, tell me what you got.”

“I’ve been looking at the first victim.”

“Yep, I know. Anne Chambers.”

“I’ve been going through her journal, tracking down friends, people who signed her yearbooks, study partners, stuff like that.”

“And?”

“I’ve located most of them. Made a lot of notes. Her diary talks about seeing someone, but she didn’t name names. I showed Charlie’s picture to Anne’s mother, but she didn’t recognize him.” I handed him the file I’d put together. “Maybe something will jump out at you. I think I’ve looked at it too much.”

“Maybe. Or maybe there’s nothing there.”

I shook my head. “There are answers there. In her life. I’m certain of it. I just can’t see them. You want to get an arrest and conviction, find Charlie’s connection to Florida.”

“May not be an issue if we connect him to any more victims up here.”

“Promise you’ll look anyway?”

Rauser smiled at me and his gray eyes were clear as rainwater. “I promise. I’ll take it home with me and have a look before I crash, okay? Look, nobody wants cold cases open. The families never really get peace until we close.”

We were quiet for another minute, watching the pigeons, thinking about the dead. Rauser drank milky liquid from the melting ice in my cup.

“I met an old lady who lived near Anne and her parents down on Jekyll Island. Her mom said they used to hang out. A card reader.”

“She tell your fortune?” Rauser snickered.

“Not exactly. Well, sort of.” I flushed, suddenly embarrassed, remembering what she’d said.
The po-lice man … love you
.

Rauser was smiling at me, waiting. “And?”

“She said the last time Anne came to see her, she warned her that she was in danger.”

“Be easy to say now.”

“Be easy to say anything now.”

“You believe it?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. Really weird old lady, but I swear she knows things. She actually brought up Dan. She called him Mr. Fancy Pants, but—”

“That’s him.” Rauser laughed.

“She also said she felt the same vibe around me, which was pretty eerie given the whole car-wreck-hospital-stalking-bomb thing. But then she had said something about eating pussy, so I decided maybe she was just nuts.”

Rauser was nodding his head at me seriously and with absolutely no sincerity at all. He was fighting back a laugh and I knew it.

“It’s a long story,” I said lamely.

He picked up the plastic cup he’d already drained and started eating the ice. “She say you’re a closet case too?”

I rolled my eyes. “What is this obsession you have with my sexuality?”

“You’re flattered. Might as well admit it.”

I thought about something Grady had told me while we ate MoonPies at the service station. “Did you know that on New Year’s Eve in Brunswick, Georgia, they drop a big ole papier-mâché shrimp into a huge vat of cocktail sauce?”

Rauser just looked at me.

“It’s their version of the ball in Times Square.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Don’t you find that odd?”

“I find it odd that you give a shit,” Rauser said.

“It’s just very weird. Don’t you think it’s weird?”

“What are they supposed to drop it into?”

“I think you’re missing the point.”

“Tartar sauce?”

I gestured to my empty cup. “Why don’t you go get us a couple of those since you drank all mine?”

Rauser blew out air like cigarette smoke and said, “Ha! They oughta call this place Fivebucks instead of Starbucks. Besides, I am not standing up there ordering some pansy shit like that. Especially if I gotta say
latte
after it.”

I stood and slugged his shoulder hard on the way to the counter inside. “I’ll get it myself. You’re such a dick sometimes, Rauser.”

He flashed his grin up at me. “Bring me one too, okay? Lots of ice.”

W
hite Trash met me at the door, brushed up against my legs, looked up at me squinty-eyed, and began herding me toward the kitchen. In her fantasies, I fully believed, White Trash was a border collie, obsessively tending her herd, keeping everything in a tight little circle. Her meager belongings—catnip mice and a catnip pillow, a ball—she leaves neatly under the table when she’s done playing, and when she had occasion to encounter a helium balloon in the house on my birthday, she spent days pulling it by the string each time it drifted away and carefully stashing it back under the table. I indulge her. It’s easier this way. She’s very focused. There would be no rest until she had what she wanted.

I dutifully removed a slice of deli turkey from a bag in the fridge, tore it into little pieces for her, then leaned against the counter with a can of Reddi-wip and tilted it into my mouth. That couldn’t have been more than a serving, I thought, reading the can for serving size. Two tablespoons. Hmmm. I did it a few more times. White Trash showed some interest in what I was eating, so I squirted a little on her plate. She tried it, liked it, stretched, and left me there in the kitchen, used and alone.