An Unquiet Grave (Louis Kincaid Mysteries) (22 page)

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Authors: P.J. Parrish

BOOK: An Unquiet Grave (Louis Kincaid Mysteries)
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Louis hesitated, glancing around. The place was one big room backed by an old-fashioned soda fountain counter and a scattering of tables covered with red-checked tablecloths. Back when U.S. 12 had been the major highway from Detroit to Chicago, the place had probably been humming with hungry travelers. It reminded Louis of roadside diners he had seen in the South, places where the cars didn’t stop anymore but the slow ebb and flow of life kept going.
Louis slid onto the stool just as the waitress set a plate down in front of Delp.
“What’s that?” Louis asked.
“Liver and onions.”
Louis grimaced even as his rumbling stomach was telling him that it didn’t smell half bad. When the waitress returned, he ordered a hot roast beef sandwich and a beer.
Delp was wolfing down his food but finally came up for air. “All right then,” he said, “if I ask you a straight question, you going to give me a straight answer?”
“Depends,” Louis said.
Delp wiped his face with a paper napkin. “So what are you doing here?”
Louis took a swig of beer to buy time before he answered. It was probably just a matter of time before Delp found out he was helping Dalum. And there was a good chance Delp would also find out about Claudia, and the last thing he needed was Delp showing up on the Lawrences’ doorstep.
The waitress brought his food. Louis took two big forkfuls of the gravy-covered sandwich before he spoke. “Look, if I tell you why I’m here, I want your word you won’t write about it.”
Delp shook his head. “You know I can’t promise that.”
“It’s got to do with my foster father, something personal.”
“You’ve got a foster father?”
Louis ignored him. “I swear, Delp, if you so much as make one phone call to his house, I’ll break your goddamn neck.”
“Little drastic, don’t you think?”
“Not at all.”
“Okay, okay. You got my word.”
Louis told Delp about his search for Claudia’s remains, giving only enough details to be convincing. When he was finished, Delp was shaking his head.
“What’s the matter?” Louis asked.
“I don’t know if I can keep that promise, man. That is a helluva story.”
“Look, you weasel—”
“If your missing woman was murdered by my man Becker, then she’s part of my story.”
Louis just stared at him.
“Come on,” Delp said. “Don’t tell me that didn’t already cross your mind.”
Louis looked away, down at his roast beef sandwich. He picked up a fork and took a bite, mainly because he didn’t want to look at Delp.
“All right, when was your missing woman in Hidden Lake?” Delp asked.
“She was committed in 1951 and died there in 1972,” Louis said.
“Becker was there from 1963 to 1980.”
Louis was quiet, pushing the mashed potatoes around with his fork. He wasn’t about to tell Delp that Claudia had been confined to E Building, just one floor below Becker.
“And if Becker killed a patient, don’t you think the hospital just might want to keep that little fact quiet?” Delp went on. “Don’t you think they might even accidently
misplace
said patient’s body just in case someone ever asked?”
Louis pushed his plate away. In the mirror behind the counter, he could see his and Delp’s reflections.
“Quid pro quo, Kincaid,” Delp said.
Louis didn’t say anything.
“Tit for tat. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”
Louis faced him. “What do you want from me, Delp?”
“Anything I can get on Becker.”
“What do I get in return?”
“My help. And my word that I won’t write about your missing woman.
If
she turns out to have no connection to Becker.”
Louis stared at the reporter for a moment. “Okay,” he said.
“Great. So how about you start by getting me a copy of that dead nurse’s autopsy report?”
“Why?”
“Just to see if the M.O. fits.”
“How about if you tell me about Becker and I’ll tell you if it fits?”
Delp shrugged. “Becker killed six women, all the same way. Strangled them, crushed their necks, and left them naked outdoors.”
“So do most serial murderers.” Louis hesitated. He had to ask, there was no other way. “Did he mark his victims in any way?”
Delp looked at him with new interest. “Mark? The Gruber woman was marked? How?”
“Cigarette burns on the inner thigh.”
Delp shook his head. “I’ll go back and check through my files, but I know that all Becker’s victims were found in an advanced state of decomposition. Probably no way to tell.”
Louis was quiet, sorry he had shared that detail with Delp. He still didn’t trust him, and he knew Dalum intended to keep that fact secret from the public.
“I do know,” Delp said, leaning close, “that Becker was a smoker. Had a carton of Camels in his car when they arrested him.”
Louis could see Delp’s Civic outside the window, and he remembered it was filled with boxes and files. To know what they found in Becker’s car, Delp had to have gotten a copy of the evidence log or the arrest reports.
“What else do you have on Becker?” Louis asked.
“Everything from police interviews to crime scene photos to copies of one of the dead girl’s diaries.”
Louis shook his head. “Where’d you get it all?”
Delp grinned. “Bought some. Stole some. Some was public record. Met a few greedy cops along the way. But there’s one thing I don’t have that you can get me. I need Becker’s death certificate.”
“Get it yourself. It’s public record,” Louis said.
Delp made an obnoxious sound like a game show buzzer. “Wrongo, LaBatts breath. It’s sealed. Now why do you suppose the state did that?”
“To keep it away from ghouls like you.”
Delp held up his empty beer bottle for the waitress to see. “I think it’s because Becker escaped from that hell-hole and the hospital had to cover it up, just like they covered up your friend’s death.”
The waitress set down a fresh bottle in front of Delp. “Becker’s out there, man,” he said.
“Becker’s out there in that cemetery,” Louis said.
“Sure. Just like your missing woman was.”
Louis shook his head. “You’re believing your own hype, Delp.”
“Okay, then, let’s find someone who can tell us,” Delp said. “Someone besides a doctor or nurse who are afraid they’ll be sued. Like a former patient who knew Becker or Claudia.”
Louis looked down at his bottle. Delp was right. The hospital staff wasn’t going to tell any secrets. And if he was going to take this crazy Becker theory to Dalum, he needed something solid, needed to know more about what it really had been like inside Hidden Lake.
And there was someone who could tell him. The woman who had tried to run off with Claudia in 1952. What was her name? Millie something. Millie Reuben.
Alice had refused to give him her files, but he knew Dalum could find out where Millie Reuben was. If she was still alive.
“What are you thinking, Kincaid?” Delp asked.
Louis stood up and tossed some money on the counter. “Nothing.”
“You have an inside contact, don’t you,” Delp said. “You have a former patient you’re going to see, right?”
“Doesn’t matter, Delp,” Louis said, slipping on his jacket. “You’re not going with me anyway.”
“Quid pro quo, Kincaid.”
Louis shook his head. “Not this time.”
Louis left the restaurant, pausing under the overhang to zip his jacket. Louis heard the slam of the storm door and smelled cigarette smoke, knowing Delp had followed him out. Louis put up his collar and stepped out into the sleet. As he was unlocking the car, Delp grabbed his arm.
“Kincaid, if you guys dig up Becker, I want in.”
“No promises.”
“Then how’s this for a headline?” Delp said. “A Foster Son’s Lonely Search for the Missing Bones of a Poor Little Rich Girl.”
“I ought to deck you,” Louis said.
“Aw, come on,” Delp said. “If Becker’s grave is empty, it’ll be national news. Just let me break the story.”
Delp was shivering, the damp Kool dangling from his lips.
“All right,” Louis said, slipping in the car. “I’ll do what I can.”
“I’ll give you an acknowledgment in the book.”
Louis jerked the car door closed and started the engine. Delp tossed the cigarette to the dirt, gave Louis a small wave, and hurried back inside the restaurant.
CHAPTER 22
 
Louis took a drink from the can of Dr Pepper, careful not to take his eyes off the twisting road. The last sign he had seen said DEXTER 6 MILES. He passed under an old stone railroad bridge, and started seeing a scattering of Victorian houses set back among the trees. He passed a sign for the Dexter Cider Mill; then the town came into view and he slowed.
The row of storefronts were painted in rusty reds and shades of gray. There was a small Victorian clock tower set on an island in the middle of the street. Beneath it, huddled on a green bench, were two old men in checkered flannel jackets and leather caps with earflaps.
Farther along, he passed a weathered wooden gazebo. Inside the gazebo were two teenagers who, in between kisses, were watching workers string a banner from the streetlights that read A VICTORIAN CHRISTMAS.
He took a right at Apple Orchard Lane, and less than a block later, he saw the house that Millie Reuben had described to him on the phone, a pale pink Victorian with a wraparound porch. He pulled in behind a blue sedan, picked up the thin manila folder off the seat, and walked to the door. He knocked.
When he had called, he had told Millie Reuben that he wanted to talk about Hidden Lake, and after a long silence, she had agreed, without even asking him why.
There was a white lace curtain over the door’s glass inset. It moved suddenly, a pair of eyes appearing. Then the door opened.
He knew Millie Reuben was in her midfifties and he had been expecting a hollow-eyed, broken woman. But Millie Reuben had loose, brown curls and was wearing a leopard-trimmed, velour pantsuit. Her face was lightly lined with a brush of rose at her cheeks, but she wore no mascara or eye shadow. She didn’t need to. Her deep-set, thickly lashed eyes were flecked with yellow and green, and he knew instantly they had once been her most beautiful feature.
“Millie Reuben?” he asked.
“You must be Officer Kincaid.”
“Yes. May I come in?”
Millie stepped back and let him inside, then led him to a living room filled with sunshine from a large bay window. The place was pine-scented with an undernote of something sweet he thought he knew but couldn’t quite imagine in this old house.
Millie motioned for him to sit and he propped himself on the corner of a hard-tufted couch. Millie started to sit down, but her eye caught a shadow behind her and she turned.
“Go stir the stew, Ruthie. He’s not here to see you.”
The shadow disappeared and Millie reached to an end table and opened a silver box, taking out a cigarette. “My sister,” she said as she lit the cigarette with a red Bic from her pocket.
She grabbed an ashtray and came to sit across from Louis. “I’m sorry,” she said, waving her cigarette. “Does this bother you?”
“No.”
“Good,” she said. “Not that it would make any difference to me. Ever since I got out of that place, I’ve made it a point to do exactly what I want to do when I want to do it.”
“I understand.”
“So,” she said. “Why do you want to know about that place? Is someone suing them?”
“No,” Louis said.
“You writing a book?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Miss Reuben,” Louis said, “I realize this might be hard for you—”
Millie shook her head quickly. “I used to talk about this stuff every week with my shrink. I saw the same one for years and trust me, he got memories out of me about that place I didn’t know I had. I’m fine with all of it now.”
She reached over and opened a drawer on the end table. It was full of brown prescription vials.
“Really, I am,” she added.
Louis wasn’t so sure. Maybe it would be best if he started with something other than Donald Lee Becker.
“Do you remember Claudia DeFoe?” he asked.
Millie closed the drawer and sat back, blowing out smoke. “Nice little rich girl,” she said. “Not that having all that money ever helped her any. Money didn’t do you a damn bit of good in that place.”
“When did you meet her?”

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