Where Angels Rest (35 page)

Baiting him was even easier. “Mr. Ferguson,” Rodney said, speaking in falsetto. The voice sounded ridiculous to his ears, like Mrs. Doubtfire, but Lud didn’t have the brain cells to question it. “My name is Suzanne Fuller, and I’m an investigative reporter for the Ohio Morning news show.”

“Fuller?” he asked. He was dazed, maybe a little bit drunk. But impressed, Rodney thought.

“I do research and interviews for Matt Laughlin and Lisa Gebhardt.” Throw in the names of real anchors: Laughlin and Gebhardt had done extensive segments about Jack and Rebecca over the past couple of days. “We
read about you in the paper today and we’d like to talk to you, and do an interview for TV. We’ll pay you. We pay our sources very well, Mr. Ferguson.”

“Uh, oh, well. Okay. That’d be good.”

“Are you free this afternoon?”

“Uh…”

“We’re shooting a story about crime in small-town America. We’ll be there in about an hour. We’re starting at the railroad tracks on Elmwood Road, you know, setting up the flavor of the town. There’s an old station house there my producer wants to shoot.”

“Yeah, I know it. Elmwood Road.”

“Can you walk it, or can you get a ride?” A little solicitousness couldn’t hurt.

“I can get there,” he said, and Rodney thought he could almost hear him clearing his voice, straightening out his flannel shirt for the cameras.

He smiled. Pure mastery. “An hour, then.”

He disconnected. Now, to Leni’s car. This part carried some risk—broad daylight. She’d parked in the alley at the back of the restaurant, but he still wished she hadn’t driven to work; it would have been easier taking her car from the house. No such luck, though, and he had to wait in a crook in the alley for nearly twenty minutes before there were no pedestrians in sight. Then he pulled out the set of keys he’d taken from Rebecca’s purse, adjusted the bothersome bun at the back of his head, and walked to the car as if it belonged to him.

Head up, fast pace. Look straight at where you’re going. Not very much like Leni, really, but more importantly,
nothing
like Rodney.

He got to the car and slipped into the driver’s seat. Let out a little giggle.

Elmwood Road was an eighteen-minute drive. He slowed, scanning the railroad tracks, and tucked the car behind one of the abandoned buildings. The station had been condemned for years, except by rats and stray dogs; there probably weren’t ten cars a day that came by here. Even if someone lived in one of the dilapidated houses in the distance, Rodney was far enough away not to be recognized. Woman’s coat, Leni’s car, wig—

And there he was. Ludwig Ferguson.

He walked along the tracks toward the old station, his body listing right as if he had a hitch in his side, his shirt tucked in to a beltless pair of jeans, an old denim jacket hanging open. Rodney couldn’t be sure, but it almost looked as if his hair had been recently combed.

Gonna be on TV.

He waited until Lud was halfway across the second set of tracks, checked in both directions to be sure no cars were coming, and ran him down.

The police and FBI had already been through Rebecca’s bedroom. Personal items—notes, receipts, a date book, palm pilot—were gone. The things she had packed herself to take with Ace were gone. The clothes left behind had that feeling of pockets having been searched and the hangers returned to the closet ten at a time. Drawers had been riffled through and items returned to their places not quite right.

Still, Erin and Katie sifted through everything that was left, one piece at a time.

At two, Nick called. “Learning anything from Katie?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Okay.” She could tell he knew Katie was standing right there. “How’s Leni?”

“She went to the restaurant about ten-thirty. Needed to keep busy, I think.” And maybe keep up a living.

“Look out the window, down the street half a block,” Nick said. “Is there a gray sedan out there that only a Fed would drive?”

Erin looked. “I see it. That’s a government car?”

“No. I told Agent Fisher not to use a government car because I didn’t want him to look like a Fed, so he went and rented a fucking gray sedan.”

“So it
is
a Fed?”

“Two of them. Fisher and Holt. They won’t interfere, but they’ll tail you if you need to go anywhere.”

Erin closed her eyes. No fear when Nick Mann was on duty.

Nick started to say something, hesitated, then said, “Listen, Erin, I haven’t really had time to think about things, but… you might have been right last night after the fire, at least about some of it.”

“Some of it?”

“All of it. Especially the part about caring for you.”

Warmth flooded her. “It was a bluff, you know. I wasn’t sure.”

“Christ.”

Erin smiled. Felt a tingle:
Nikolaus Mann likes you.
She let it sink in then got back to business. “Anything happening?”

He told her about Robin Weelkes and Margaret’s alibi.

“I’m more confused than ever,” Erin admitted.

“So am I. But for Justin, confusion is good. It means the Florida court has too much shit to sort out to go through with Justin’s execution.”

“Are you sure?”

“Not a hundred percent. Ninety-five.”

She’d take it.

Except for the buzzards, they might not have found him.

Deputy Cutter—the man who’d thought it odd for Lud Ferguson to have an iPod—also thought it odd that buzzards had gathered above the old railway station. He tooled over, saw a lump, and the hairs on the back of his neck rippled. He pulled close enough to honk and scatter the birds in a cacophony of squawks and beating wings, then got out of his car and made his way toward the lump. It was human, he realized, his heartbeat quickening, and the jacket looked familiar. He hesitated, worried now: the arms and one leg were bent at an unlikely angle. Hand hovering over his pistol, he touched his radio and edged closer. Dark purple blood had puddled around the head, and when he stepped around to see the face…

Ah, God.

W
HEN
N
ICK DROVE
to the railroad tracks, Cutter was standing beside a lump, waving his arms at buzzards. A caravan of cars followed Nick: the press and others. The ME came in with Quentin, two minutes behind Nick, along with a couple of Feds, who then stood around in their long dark coats and small dark sunglasses, scratching their chins. Watching the small-town bumpkins handle a hit-and-run scene, Nick thought, and he might have smiled had there not been a dead man at his feet.

He peered down at Lud. He was half-sprawled, half-twisted on the train tracks. Until Cutter, no one but the buzzards had noticed.

“How long ago?” Nick asked the ME, who crouched over the body, touching the blood with a thin utensil. Looked like a meat thermometer.

“Not long. Blood’s still tacky. Give me a chance to do a body temp and then I can tell you better.” The ME stood, shivered. Nick didn’t think it was from the weather.

Quent walked up. “No skid marks, no tracks. Be nice if we had a half-inch of snow or something. It’s all just cracked up pavement and gravel out here. Nothing to
see.” He looked down at Lud’s body. “You think we fingered him?”

Yeah, Nick thought, with guilt moving through his veins. They’d fingered him.

But not as much as the newspaper had.

He straightened, skimmed the growing crowd. Lasered in on Leslie Roach.

“Nick? You cool, man?” Quentin asked. He sounded worried.

“Fuck cool,” Nick said, and stalked to the edge of the crime scene tape. He pointed a finger at Leslie, then crooked it at her. Her eyes got wide, a hyena spotting a meal, and she slipped through the photographers with a toss of her head and her chin in the air, as if proud to be The Chosen One.

He lifted the yellow tape and guided her under it by the elbow. When courtesy would have demanded that he let go, he tightened his fingers further and walked her past a couple of deputies, into the center of the scene. He felt her steps begin to drag but didn’t stop until they were right over the body.

“Nick, what are you—”

“Take a look,” he snarled, and she glanced down, then immediately looked away. Nick put a hand on the back of her neck and cranked her face back toward the body of Lud Ferguson. “I said, take a look.” She tried to draw back against his hand, but he knew she was looking. At eyes that had bulged from the impact then been pecked by buzzards, at blood crusted around Lud’s lips.

“Let me go,” she croaked.

“Lud Ferguson knew nothin’ about nothin’.”

“L-let go—”

“He didn’t touch Rebecca Engel and he didn’t see who did. He knew
nothing.
”

Leslie whirled away and threw up. Nick watched with so much fury vibrating in his bones he thought his head might explode. He gave her another minute, her gut heaving in front of God and everybody, and when she looked at him, the back of her hand touching her mouth, Nick said, “You might as well have driven the car that bowled him down yourself. Why don’t you print
that
?”

Leni Engel left the restaurant mid-afternoon, walked to the drug store, and picked out a bottle of Sominex. Did a double take at a small TV behind the counter. A newsbreak in the middle of the afternoon:
“… authorities are now saying that Ferguson’s death is considered part of the Calloway investigation, and may be connected to the disappearance of Rebecca Engel. Michael Wainscott is standing by at the scene… Michael? Originally, this looked like a tragic hit-and-run, maybe even an accident. Can you tell us what is leading authorities to believe that…”

“Hey. Mrs. Engel?” The girl behind the counter touched Leni’s hand. Leni blinked, took her change, and headed out. Lud Ferguson. She’d seen the newspaper, caught bits and pieces of the news on TV all day. Nick seemed certain that Lud was innocent. He didn’t know where Rebecca was; he’d simply found her suitcase. And now…

She threaded her way through the city lot, to the alley behind the restaurant where she had parked. Stopped. Looked around for the car. There it was. A little farther down than she’d remembered.

Dear Heavens, she was losing her mind.

She walked past the rear of her car, coming to the driver’s side door, slid the key into the lock, and—

Her jaw dropped. The hood was dented. For God’s sake, someone had hit her car.

She glanced around, looking for the culprit, then pulled the key from the lock and went around to the front to get a better look. One time, years ago when her husband was still around, he’d hit a deer on the road. They’d eaten venison all winter long and paid a fortune to repair the car. Its front end was buckled, the headlight cracked, and the bumper hanging on for dear life.

It looked just like this.

Nick got the first call about Leni’s mangled car as the ME piled Lud Ferguson into a county van and the newsmakers began dispersing. It wasn’t from Leni, but from a passerby in the parking lot who’d heard the news about Lud and got to wondering. Nick got another call on his way to the Eatery. It wasn’t from Leni, either.

Well, shit.

He and Quent went through the alley and eyeballed Leni’s car, dispersed the onlookers, then posted a deputy to babysit the vehicle. They went through the back door of the restaurant—getting looks from the help still cleaning the kitchen—and straight to a little office Leni used for bookkeeping. She was sitting behind a small wooden desk. She looked catatonic.

“What happened to your car, Leni?” Nick asked.

She didn’t react and he walked around the desk and folded to his haunches in front of her. “A man who might’ve seen Rebecca is dead now, and people are seeing your car. You need to tell us what happened.”

“Did he know where Becca is?” she asked, her eyes seeming to look right through him.

He let a drop of venom leak into his voice. “We’ll never know now, will we?”

“Oh, God…”

Nick glanced at Quentin, who said, “I’ll go talk to the employees.”

Quentin slipped out and Nick turned back to Leni. “Damn it, what happened to your car?”

“Did Lud Ferguson kill my Becca?”

Her words sank into Nick’s chest like wet cement. “Jesus, Leni, I don’t think he did. Honest to God, I don’t think he did.”

Another few seconds ticked by, then her eyes cleared. “All right, then. I didn’t do it. I’ve been here since ten-thirty this morning.”

He took her in anyway—there wasn’t any choice—had the car towed in and let Feldman call in one of his forensics guys from the Cleveland field office. Before the Cleveland Fed even arrived, they knew: This was the car that had killed Lud Ferguson. Trace evidence on the car would take time to analyze, but the dead man’s injuries matched the damage on the car, and a few grains of gravel and tar from the tire treads were distinctly the same as those found at the Elmwood Road railroad track crossing. Lud hadn’t died instantly. He’d lived long enough for deep bruises to form at the points of impact, for blood to gather in a lung and pulse up his bronchial tubes and out his mouth. Long enough to have known he was dying, maybe even see the birds gathering, waiting.

Nick smothered that thought, shook off the media and the Feds and the commissioner, and buried himself in his office. He couldn’t loosen up; his muscles and tendons and even his bones were clenched with tension. Most of the time, criminals were stupid; a few hours, a couple of days at the most, and the cops were hauling in some asshole with gun residue on his hands, or some other asshole
who’d bragged about the crime, or some other one who never dreamed it was a bad idea to speed on the highway while fleeing the crime scene. Those chases—quick and down and dirty—always delivered a sense of victory, the kind of instant gratification that made cops high-five each other at happy hour and laugh at the stupidity of the criminal mind.

But once in a while, there was a guy—or gal, or even a group—who actually put on a
show
. Someone smart and careful and calculated. In this day and age of DNA and CSI, even that wasn’t usually enough to get away with something. A criminal had to be
lucky,
too. And when brains and good planning converged with sheer luck, then it was something extraordinary. A battle of good versus evil, in which the stakes were literally life and death.