The Stranger You Seek (35 page)

“We did all the work ourselves. Bought the land about ten years ago, when you could still get it for a song,” Pat told me. “Pretty much pays for itself now and we just hang out.”

She opened a door and we climbed a narrow pine staircase, then went through another door that opened onto a rooftop crammed with plants and a gas grill, Japanese lanterns and two chaise longues, an outdoor daybed, all in a deep espresso. Somebody has a West Elm catalog, I thought.

“We’ll give you some privacy,” Chris said, and they left me standing on their roof with my cell phone.

Rauser answered on the second ring. “Hey, you. Get my message?”

“No. I can’t get a signal up here.”

“Where’s up here?”

“Ellijay. Um. A missing-cow case,” I said, and laughed. “My first, by the way. My mother is so proud. I’m on the Smellys’ roof right now, which might take some explaining.”

“You know, I really want to ask,” Rauser said with a grin in his voice.

“I’ll fill you in when I get home. How’s it going?” I almost didn’t want to know. Atlanta, the murders, at least for this one afternoon, seemed far away.

“The mayor’s screaming. The press is screaming, and Charlie Ramsey’s one slippery bastard. I told you he lost my teams a couple times. And my detectives are no dumbasses. The timeframes fit with when he started fucking with Melissa Dumas twelve to fifteen hours before he actually killed her. And if the ME’s right on time of death for Dobbs, it’s consistent too. We thought Charlie was inside sleeping before we picked him up the first time, but he must have slipped out.”

I thought about that day we’d left the station after Charlie’s first interview with Rauser and the possible dead body call that came over Rauser’s radio. Charlie must have known while he was sitting there being his goofy innocent self in the interrogation room that the call was going to come in any minute, that Dobbs’s dead, mutilated body was baking in a hot, bloody car on Eighth Avenue. I closed my eyes. The killing no longer seemed so distant.

“You figure out how Charlie’s losing you?”

“Uh-huh,” Rauser said. “It was that self-storage warehouse. We set a honey trap for him, got the unit next to his and wired Bevins, put her in a wife beater and short shorts and an old car filled up with thrift-store crap.” Detective Linda Bevins was blonde and curvy, a little wide-eyed, the kind of woman guys really go for, the kind of woman guys usually
underestimate. “Charlie pedaled by a couple times on his bike, then went for it. Offered her help unloading. Bevins put some of the bait out, mentioned she was in a legal thing with a boss that had fired her. She played it, didn’t push, waited for Charlie to ask the questions. I told her to say she had another load, so he’d know she was coming back and he could make his move. He was getting pretty comfortable, then he spotted a goddamn Salvation Army price tag on a lamp, and he put it together pretty fast. Threw the lamp down and rode off.” I heard Rauser hit his cigarette. “Here’s the good news: We finally got someone that recognized Charlie’s mug on TV. Says he raped her. She had a rape kit done after the event, but no one was able to pull in a viable suspect. And Balaki’s following up on another call. Same deal. Six weeks ago. This woman claims her attacker had a knife. If it pans out, I’ll have him in custody by morning, and he’ll have to submit to DNA testing for the rapes. Then I can get his ass off the streets while we build the Wishbone case.”

“That’s huge!” I said, and thought about the day Charlie had grabbed me, the language he had used, sexual and angry. I’d worked serial rapist cases at the Bureau. Some of them started as peepers, then escalated as they began to fully realize their violent fantasies. “Can you put him in Florida?”

“No. Not yet.”

“You’re a good cop, Rauser. I wouldn’t want to be the bad guy.”

Rauser’s strategy with compliments was to deflect rather than accept. “Tell me about the Smellys,” he said.

“They own the cabins where Quinn booked me. Nice. Well,
their
cabin is nice, anyway. Mine has a lot of embroidered framed roosters. Why do people do this to cabins? I mean, what is it about a chicken that makes you think cabin-in-the-woods? I just don’t get it.”

“Yeah,” Rauser said. “I think antlers and shit like that more than chickens.”

I laughed. “Well, they’re very nice people. They’re letting me use their roof to talk to you because this wall of mountains is blocking my reception.”

“Straight couple?”

“Gay women. Why?”

“Have you noticed the lesbian thing is a continuing theme in your life?”

“In
your
life,” I told him. “It’s all you think about. What is it exactly with the two-women fantasy thing and guys? I don’t get that either. It’s not like that with women. Just so you know. We don’t fantasize about men doing it.” I sank down into one of the Smellys’ espresso-colored lounge chairs. It was just after sundown, and the stars seemed so close here in the mountains, away from the city lights. “Okay, I take that back. We do think about it, but only if they’re underage and you can bounce a quarter off their rear ends.”

“So are these real lesbians or just women you think are hitting on you?”

“They live together and hold hands and everything. And I’m sure they
would
hit on me. They’re just obviously in love.”

“And we’re monogamous,” Pat said from behind me. She had a cup of something hot in her hand. Steam was rising off it.

“And they’re monogamous,” I repeated, and smiled at her, trying not to look as embarrassed as I felt.

“And what about the cow?”

I took the steaming mug from Pat. It smelled like herbal tea, minty and sweet. “Long story.”

Rauser chuckled. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Street. Try to stay out of trouble until then.”

I closed my phone and looked up at Pat. “I know how that must have sounded, but it’s just this friend of mine who teases me because he thinks that I think women always want me, when, in fact, I don’t think that at all, really. Just this waitress at Hooters and the forensic scientist he’s sleeping with. Most women don’t even
like
me, actually. And I don’t really know any lesbians, although my best friend is sleeping with one, and Atlanta has about a million. And
Decatur
. Oh my God. Have you ever been to Decatur? It’s, like, dyke central, perfect little short haircuts and athletic shoes.”

Pat was staring at me.

“I’m making it worse, aren’t I?”

“Enjoy your tea. Chris made it with mint from the garden.” She paused and seemed to choose her next words carefully. “Ever consider that if your friend’s sleeping with a lesbian, she may be a lesbian?”

I shook my head and smiled. “Absolutely not.”

I
met Big Jim at Penland’s Fried Pies and Gifts. He plopped down coffee for us both in monogrammed mugs and fried apple pies with ice cream. There were a few small tables and chairs near a stone fireplace inside, and Big Jim straddled a chair and smiled at me.

“They’re best for breakfast,” he said. I had no problem with that. I’d been obsessing about the pie since I’d had my first two. “Here’s the list you wanted. Competitors mostly. And a few people I may have crossed lately.”

I took a bite of pie and ice cream, washed it down with some coffee, and picked up the paper he’d put between us. It was a long list. “I didn’t realize Ellijay was this big.”

“Well, I guess I have a particular way of offending folks round here.”

“You seem like a nice guy to me,” I said.

“Yeah, but you’re kind of a pushover. It’s all about the pie for you.”

I smiled. I liked Big Jim. “You bring a picture of Sadie too?”

He nodded and pulled a wallet-size photo out of his denim shirt pocket.

“Nice-looking cow,” I said as if I had a clue. Big Jim’s eyes got wet and he had to look away.

I started at the Cupboard Restaurant in downtown Ellijay. It was large and open, with vinyl booths and the look of a cafeteria. I was taken
to a small booth to wait for Ida May Culpepper, the first person on Big Jim’s list.

Two waitresses worked the room, both middle-aged and friendly, both knew their customers by their first names. I glanced at the menu and saw chicken and dumplings, collard greens with pepper vinegar, fried chicken livers, and lots of apple products—apple pancakes, apple bread, apple pie, apple cake, fried apples, apple salads.

“Here ya go, hon,” one of the waitresses said to me. The thick white plate she set in front of me had a huge slice of apple pie. “Want some coffee with that?”

“Oh no, I couldn’t. I’m just waiting for Ida May.”

“Can’t nobody sit at the Cupboard and not eat. How would that look? Pie’s on the house. Ida May will be with you shortly.”

Ida May Culpepper was a tiny woman in her late fifties with smokers’ creases above her mouth and dyed black hair. She slid into the booth and beamed at me. “What can I do for you today, hon?”

“Ever seen this cow?” I asked it as seriously as one can ask a question like that.

“Oh my Lord.” Ida May laughed. “You have got to be kidding me. Is this about Jim Penland’s cow? Don’t tell me he hired a detective to find that ole thing.”

“Afraid so.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “I got four in my pasture and two of ’em look just like this if you want to come see. Maybe you can get a hoof-print or something.”

“Mr. Penland mentioned the two of you had a run-in recently.”

Ida May sat back and looked at me. “He tell you why? I got four home-cooking restaurants and one bakery in two counties up here and we use a lot of apples. We don’t use his no more, though. We go to another grower. It’s not personal. I got to make money and Jim won’t come down on his price come hell or high water. It don’t make a damn to him that I helped him out when he was just getting started.”

“Sounds personal to me,” I observed.

“Well, maybe it is a little, but I still wouldn’t give two cents for that damn ole cow.”

Just outside Ida May’s restaurant, I saw the stack of Atlanta papers
in a wire rack near the front door with a handwritten sign putting the price for dailies at seventy-five cents and the Sunday paper at two and a quarter. The headlines screamed:
Gruesome Murder in Morningside Home. Wishbone’s 8th
.

I went back inside and paid the cashier, stepped out on the street and walked with the newspaper. I needed to walk. It was barely ten-thirty in the morning and already I’d unbuttoned the top of my pants under my shirt. If I didn’t get out of the apple capital soon, I’d have to hire a truck to get me home.

I spent the next three hours checking off the names on Big Jim’s enemy list, which included the Snell family, who owned the second-largest peach and apple orchards in Georgia, claimed to have a town named after them outside Atlanta, claimed to have no ill feelings for their largest competitor, and claimed to be “good God-fearing folks.” They happily gave me a tour of their orchards, their processing center, their home, and their horse ranch. They fed me pimento cheese sandwiches cut into little squares, what we call pamina cheese down South. They invited me to church with them, but I would have just as soon been beaten with a stick.

In the hills above East Ellijay, I discovered that Clyde Clower, the sixth name on Big Jim’s enemy list, was not going to be as forthcoming. He slammed the door so hard that the double-wide shook, leaving behind him only the faint smell of Budweiser and marijuana. Big Jim had fired him a couple of days before Sadie disappeared. I snooped around outside a little, didn’t find anything, but Clyde was the kind of guy who looked like he was perfectly capable of getting ripped and stealing a cow. I decided to come back later and keep an eye on him.

I was beginning to feel worried for Sadie. She trailed around behind Big Jim’s family because she preferred them to the other cows. She opened doors and walked into the house. That cow was the best dog they’d ever had, Big Jim had said. And she was totally socialized now to humans. I hated to think of her in a strange place scared and with separation anxiety.

I decided to drive over to Ida May Culpepper’s and have a look in her pasture. My Neon huffed and puffed up the hill to her ranch house and a split-rail fence, three posts high, a barn, and a few cows. I walked to the fence, took out the picture of Sadie. Looked at the cows, looked at
the picture. Back at the cows, again to the picture. I had no idea. I called Sadie’s name a few times. They all ignored me. It was more of a snub, really. They raised their heads briefly, appraised me, then went back to grazing.

There was a basket of apples Big Jim had given me in my car. Thinking that apples might be attractive to a cow, I got a few of them, put them on the ground while I climbed over the fence, and made my way out into the pasture for a closer look.

“Sadie, come on, baby. Want an apple?”

The cows started off slow, meandering toward me, then I heard hoofs galloping in the distance. I turned. It was a bull running fast, red clay dust boiling up behind him. His head was low and he looked mad. A flock of crows that had been pecking around in the fields lifted up at once. This startled the cows. They picked up speed, became deliberate and fast until they were all coming at me full gallop.

I started to run, turning to lob a few apples at them. They kept coming. Believe it or not, cows are fast once they get going. I wasn’t getting paid nearly enough to get trampled in Ida May’s pasture. Hurling my last apple at them, I picked up speed and made a leap for the fence, squeezed through just as the bull got there. He was milling around, snorting at me and pawing the dirt. The cows were all fired up too.
Good Lord
. I reached for my phone.

“Tell me about Clyde Clower,” I said to Big Jim. I was out of breath, but I had cell reception on Ida May’s mountain and I didn’t want to waste it. I gave the cows the finger and walked back to my car, still short on wind after the run. “Does he have family up here?”

“His mama is a widow, I believe. Has a little place around here somewhere. You think Clyde took Sadie?”

“He’s a candidate, that’s for sure. Has a motive. But I know he can’t keep her at the trailer park. He’d have to hide her somewhere. You have any ideas where that would be?”