A DEAD RED MIRACLE: #5 in the Dead Red Mystery Series (13 page)

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Chapter Nineteen:

By the time I got home, I felt as if my brain had been lacquered in black from the ugliness that happens when adults force their twisted desires on helpless children. Yes, I've heard plenty of stories of abuse against women, but as I would never put up with abuse from anyone, I was always able to draw a line between them and me. Children were another subject, and I felt out of my element, unable to do anything but listen. The bad feeling didn't dissipate when I let myself in and dropped my keys on the small table by the door.

There was a ball game on in the living room. I heard the refrigerator door open and glass bottles clinking together. I walked into the kitchen and Caleb saluted me with two bottles.

"Hi sweetheart. Want one? Your dad and I are watching the game."

"Sure," I said. "Let me wash up and I'll join you."

Reprieved for at least the three minutes it took to run a washcloth over my face and draw a brush through my hair, I went into the living room, accepted the beer and asked Caleb to put the game on hold. "I have some news."

Caleb turned from the still image on the TV screen to look for signs that I'd been in a fight. Seeing I didn't have a black eye, he asked, "What is it? Should you be telling this to Homicide instead of me and your dad?"

"It doesn't directly affect anything we're working on now, but it does involve Andy Sokolov." My father and I exchanged looks. I didn't have to tell him that his prediction about old friends had come true. I told them everything I'd learned from Andy's accuser.

As the story unfolded, Caleb's brows dipped, his mouth tightened and once or twice he'd ask a question or make a comment, usually with an expletive attached. "I've arrested my share of pedophiles and I know that they're never, ever cured and they don't stop unless they're caught and put in prison. He may have gone underground with this, but he hasn't quit. Oh, jeez, he's got a thirty-year-old married son with two little girls. Something has to be done."

"You
do
see that this puts Andy back on Ian's list of suspects?" I asked.

Caleb's head moved back and forth as if to shake off a bad smell. "Ian knew this and didn't tell me."

"Nobody would call Ian Tom a fool," I said. "He handed it off to Pearlie and me hoping we'd ferret out the truth. If it went balls up, it's not on his watch."

"I get it," Caleb said. "I don't like it, but I get it. Andy's dirty little secret needed uncovering, but I’m annoyed that Ian thought he should dump this on you and Pearlie so he can keep his hands clean. The question is―how to prove it?"

"What makes you think that girl was the only one?" Dad said. "He's still coaching, isn't he? Lots of them young girls raised by single moms."

"I dunno Dad," I said. "Parents are more aware of this kind of abuse these days."

Caleb growled, "He didn't get to his position as the mayor of Wishbone by being stupid!"

"You don't have to yell, Caleb."

"Sorry," Caleb said, scrubbing at the top of his buzz cut. "Tomorrow, I'm going to talk to someone I know in Sacramento. He's a criminologist and a profiler. He may be able to put us onto the right track. You and Pearlie have my permission to look as hard as you like at Andy."

He went to the door. "I'm going for a walk."

"It's dark out there," I called after him. "Take a flashlight. Better yet, take Hoover, he could use the exercise."

He clipped on Hoover's leash, picked up a flashlight and without a backward glance, went outside.

I knew this was going to be hard, but I was also grateful that Caleb didn't question the woman's story.

"He'll be all right," my dad said.

"I know. It's just that men like you and Caleb hold your friends to such high standards, that when your trust has been abused you take it very hard."

"It's like a punch to the gut," my dad said, getting off the couch. "The monsoons are supposed to kick in tonight. I better get going before there's a gully washer I can't cross."

Until monsoon season kicks in, summers are hot and dry, but July through August it rains almost every afternoon and sometimes into the night. The rain moves across the desert in cells, drenching one area and leaving whole swaths of dry spots until the next day.

I followed him out the door. Lightning flickered across the southern sky, the smell of rain in the air. "You're not sorry you told me about Andy's accuser, are you?"

"Oh, Lord no. I figured you'd get to the truth of it, one way or the other."

I pecked him on the cheek. "If you see Caleb, tell him to come home before he gets wet."

I was brushing my teeth when the front door slammed shut against the wind and Hoover's collar rattled as he shook water from his coat. Caleb came into the bathroom. "Have we got an old towel? Hoover's soaked and his feet are muddy. "

"Here," I said, tossing him one out of the hamper. "Take him out on the back patio and hose off his feet. Just put the towel in the laundry and I'll wash it tomorrow. And you look chilled; take a hot shower before you come to bed."

I was still tense from our earlier conversation, and knowing Caleb was prone to insomnia if a case was weighing on his mind, I didn't wait up. Still, I fought my way into sleep shoving away the depressing thought that even if Andy wasn't guilty of murdering Damian's father, I would have to find a way to get him on sexual abuse.

Around two a.m., I felt Caleb's weight on the bed as he moved under the sheet, his warm body still damp from a late shower as he pulled me up against him. I reached back and touched his neck where the hair was still wet.

"You were supposed to use a towel," I said.

"I did. Hoover and I shared it."

"You didn't."

"Does it matter, really?"

"In the grand scheme of things, I suppose not."

"I have a plan."

I rolled over to rest my head on his cupped hand. "You do? What is it?"

"The plan is to kiss my wife goodnight and not think about anything else."

"Good one, Caleb Stone."

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Chapter Twenty:

"I've been going over the old photos of the shoot-out," Pearlie said, "and I think I've found something."

I came over to her side of the desk and looked through the magnifying glass she kept on a stand. "See this bicycle here at the edge of the photo?"

"Yes, I see it now. A kid's hand on the handlebars and his leg on the ground next to a bike," I said. "He's behind the barricade, but he's also right next to the action. It's a wonder he didn't get shot. He must've been a local kid from around Palominas. I wonder if the sheriff's department ever interviewed him?"

"He's not on the list of witnesses, but I found a news story in the archives about a hit and run on a kid riding his bike down Highway 92. This has to be the same kid. He's about the right age to be riding his bike and he lived in Palominas. No obituary for a twelve-year-old Harley Aldrich. I don't know why they didn't interview him, but if he's still around, he might remember the incident, maybe even ID the shooter."

"Get your laptop open. We'll both look for him, or a parent."

Five minutes later, I said, "A Mavis Aldrich owns a small grocery store in Palominas. That's a location that would be close enough for a curious boy."

With high hopes that we'd just uncovered a witness that the police forgot, we hurried out the door for a chat with the mother.

<><><><><>

Shiny green zucchini, fat tomatoes, yellow squash and herbs of all kinds filled baskets along one wall of the small grocery store.

The girl behind the counter said that Mavis Aldrich was in her garden. "You can’t miss it," she said. "Drive east toward Wishbone and turn right at the sign on the highway for her vegetable farm,
Aldrich's Garden of Eaten'.
"

Seeing the Jeep drive up her gravel road, a grey-haired woman removed her gardening gloves and waited.

When we explained why we wanted to know about her son, Harley, she invited us inside for a cool glass of water.

"Sure, he was there," she said, looking with interest at Pearlie and me. "All the boys followed the fire trucks. Didn't matter if it was day or night, if they heard sirens they were on their bikes. I used to think it was safe for a kid to ride his bike on Highway 92, that is until someone plowed into my boy and kept going. Hit and run, the police called it and they never found the driver."

"Did anyone from the sheriff's office ever interview your son?"

"No. They didn't, but then he was in the hospital for a week. After that, he had therapy and that kept us busy, but come to think of it, no one ever asked, not even after he came home."

Pearlie and I looked at each other. "Perhaps the accident affected his memory of that day?"

"Oh no," Mavis said with a laugh. "Harley remembers that day like it was yesterday. Let me write down his address. He has a darling little cottage above Wishbone. Now, don't you be put off by his eccentric notions, he's fine where it counts and you'll see, he remembers every detail of that day."

Before we left, Mavis loaded us up with tomatoes, onions and squash as well as her handwritten instructions on how to find Harley's place.

<><><><><>

Harley Aldrich's cottage was just one of hundreds of cabins built for miners and their families during the heyday of the copper mining in Wishbone. Later, they were renovated and remodeled by artists and visitors who were only too happy to rediscover Wishbone's five-thousand foot elevation and cooler Arizona summers.

Because of the dry climate, the successive layers of paint on Harley's cottage had peeled back here and there so that the house appeared to be having its own psychedelic experiment. There was a garden, a miniature of his mother's, but still well-tended and weed free, and a climbing yellow rose grew over the trellis by the door, added color, fragrance and shade for the entrance.

Before we could knock, the door swung open and a man, his stocky, muscled body filling out a plaid shirt and faded jeans, smiled a welcome. His teeth were remarkably white against a thick black beard. His hair needed a trim, but it was clean and curled behind well-formed ears.

I thought Harley Aldrich might be very good looking if he shaved off the bush hiding his face.

Clear, bright blue eyes inspected us in turn. "Hello, ladies. Mom forgot to give me descriptions, so which one of you is Lalla and which one is Pearlie?"

I stuck out my hand and he shook it. "I'm Lalla Bains," I said, "and this is my cousin, Pearlie Bains."

When Pearlie offered him her hand, Harley took it between his and sighed. "Gosh, you smell good."

Pearlie gaped at the unexpected compliment, but before she could say anything, Harley pointed us to an ancient, lumpy sofa with a hound dog lying across it.

"Beans! Get off. Sorry, I can't seem to break his attachment to that couch," he said, sweeping the dog off the couch. "Oh, wait, I have cookies."

He came back with a plate of cookies and put them on top of the assorted magazines covering the coffee table. "I made these fresh this morning, so dig in."

Harley waited for us to pick a cookie, then snapped his fingers and dashed for the small kitchen. "I forgot milk," he said, his head dipping into the fridge.

Pearlie frowned and mouthed, "What's wrong with him?"

Unwilling to say anything that might embarrass our host, I elbowed her to keep quiet.

Pearlie muttered at the insult and struggled out of the saggy couch to inspect the wall of colorful photos with sticky notes next to them. She turned to me and thumbed over her shoulder the silent question on her lips,
What's this?

I cautioned her to keep quiet with a finger to my lips, but I knew we were both beginning to wonder if we'd stumbled onto some kind of stalker.

He came back into the room with two glasses of milk.

"Gotta have milk with cookies," he said, thrusting the glasses into our hands.

Pearlie nodded. "What's with the photos of people?"

He looked over to the wall. "People? Oh that. I ask for permission, but most folks don't mind. It helps me remember them for next time. I hope you'll let me take your picture before you leave. Especially you, Pearlie. I wouldn't want to forget you."

My earlier excitement at a new lead just plummeted. "Do you mind telling us about that, Harley?"

"Oh sure, I don't mind. It was the accident that did it, or so I'm told. I don't remember much of it. I recognized everyone in my family, but every time the doctor walked into the room, he was a stranger all over again. At first I was terrified and then embarrassed until the doc explained that it might or might not be permanent. I worked with a therapist and learned to compensate for the damage with a keen sense of smell. So you see, I'll remember you, Pearlie, even without that nice perfume of yours," he said, his eyes unabashedly admiring my cousin. "Everyone says I'm getting better at remembering new people when I meet them, but just in case, I keep names attached to the photos. Outside of that little problem, I can do everything a regular guy can do."

Pearlie's eyes pleaded for help.

"Your mother said you could tell us about the shooting?" I asked.

"Oh sure. Like it was yesterday," he said with a laugh. "My therapist said it's because that was the last time my brain worked on all cylinders. Did my mom tell you how much I used to love chasing fire engines?"

"Yes, she did and she told us how she knew she couldn’t stop you even if she wanted to."

Harley beamed. "That's me… well, it used to be. I'm not twelve years old anymore, but I can still hear the squeal of the fire engine tires and smell the smoke."

"So you rode your bike to where the sheriff's deputies and the church people were shooting at each other?" I asked.

"They weren't shooting when I got there, but the church people had set a wooden barricade on fire to keep everyone out and they were throwing rocks and shouting at the deputies. Then someone brought out rifles and I could see that the deputies were scared and didn't know what to do. I suppose it's not a nice thing to say, but I remember thinking the place seemed to reek of fire and hate. I'm sorry, Pearlie, did I upset you?"

"No, no," she said. "I-I was… thinking of… uh, something else. Go on. What did you see next?"

"One of the church members was shot that day," I said. "Did you see it happen?"

Harley's lips rolled in until they disappeared into his thick beard. "Well as they say in the old westerns, 'that was a dirty, low down thing to do, shooting a man in the back.'"

Though several people were shot that day, including one of the deputies, the only person shot in the back was Damian's father. "Yes, it was. Then did you see who shot him?"

He looked up at me with surprise. "Sure I did."

Relieved that our trip was not a waste of time, I took out the black and white photos I'd brought with us. "Could you look at these photos and let us know if you see him?"

Harley nodded and said, "I can try."

Seeing there wasn't a flat surface on the coffee table, he swept the magazines onto the floor. "I'll pick them up later. Let's see what you have."

I spread out photos of the crime scene.

He squatted on his muscular haunches to examine each picture, and in turn named the locals from Palominas, the deputies he knew from the time he was in grade school, and finally the partial image of a twelve-year-old Harley next to his bike. "Hey, I didn't know anyone had taken a picture of me that day."

"Well?" Pearlie asked, her voice an impatient growl. "Do you or don't you see him?"

At her sharp tone, a puzzled expression appeared in his eyes. "Not in these, I don't. Do you have any more?"

"No, sorry. That's all we have," I said, putting the pictures back into my file and standing up to leave.

Harley backed away, brushing at imaginary dust on his pant legs. Pearlie's impatience had struck a nerve and he used the gesture to symbolically brush away the episode as if it never happened.

When he looked up, I could see the intelligence that most people, myself included, probably missed. Harley had a glitch with something we all take for granted, but he wasn't an idiot and he was still a man who liked to look at a pretty girl.

"We'd better be going," Pearlie said, sidling for the door.

Harley rushed to grab his camera. "Please wait. I need to take your picture… for next time."

I smiled while he aimed his camera at me, but at the click of the lens, the door slammed shut. Pearlie had fled without saying goodbye, much less saying thanks for the cookies.

I apologized for my cousin, but Harley just laughed and rubbed a hand across his beard. "It's the beard. Scares little children, dogs and pretty girls. Maybe I'll shave it, but just between you and me, I won't have any problem remembering her, even without the photo."

At the Jeep, I got in and buckled up. "Well, that was incredibly rude."

"Why?" she asked. "We were here to see if he could ID a killer, not hang out with a guy who takes pictures of people he won't remember tomorrow."

I stared at my cousin. She had deliberately trampled on this nice man's feelings, but it would do no good to bring that up now. "Have you completely forgotten the rule for interviewing witnesses? We're supposed to make nice, empathize, create a bond, and generally do anything we can to get them talking."

"I got empathy in spades and making nice isn't going to help us one little bit. No wonder no one bothered to interview him. His testimony wouldn't stand up in court."

I fumbled to find an appropriate response. She was right of course, but right now, I just wanted to wring her neck.

I wondered if Harley would put up my picture, better yet, would he even bother to record his meeting with my heart breaker cousin?