Clean Burn (21 page)

“I suppose it’s possible she’s got something incriminating stashed away somewhere. Who knows what’s in that basement of hers.” Ken’s deputies would deserve hazard pay for excavating through it. “Speaking of warrants, you have the one for Beck’s place yet?”

“It’s waiting for me. Once we’re done here, I can pick it up on the way, meet you over there.”

“That works. I really ought to stop at the motel to check out.” At least that had been the plan when I’d woken up that morning.

“Heading back today?” I couldn’t tell from the pinched look around Ken’s mouth if he was happy with my departure or not.

“James was here, Ken. I showed his picture to Andros at Emil’s Café. Andros saw him. And told me someone set a fire nearby around the same time.”

I expected Ken to vent about me nosing around his town. Instead he asked, “Then, are you staying or going?”

I swiped the smeared chocolate on my window with my thumb. “Even if he was here, he may be dead by now.” I imagined myself telling that to Mrs Madison, imagined her pain.

“Then go on home.” He walked off toward the Explorer, leaving me to my cowardly indecision.

Mrs Vallejo arrived a few minutes later, jumping from the patrol car the moment it stopped beside mine. Norberto screamed out, “Mama!” then burst into tears as his mother snatched him up. Whatever melted mess was still on the kid’s face and hands transferred to Mrs Vallejo’s white shirt. I doubted the woman minded at all.

CHAPTER 16

Huddled on his mattress, James held the baby in his arms, Sean beside him. Thomas, the boy Mama had brought yesterday, lay on Sean’s bed, still and quiet under his blankets. He was older than Sean, but younger than James. Mama had told James that Thomas was his brother, like Sean. Like baby Lydia was his sister.

Mama had gone out in the daytime yesterday, had come back with Thomas, then had been gone all morning. Daddy had brought them breakfast instead of Mama. James had been surprised to see him since Daddy almost never came into the basement. James had been even more surprised when Daddy had slipped and called him by his real name instead of calling him Junior like Mama did.

It was nearly lunchtime. He wondered if Daddy would bring their peanut butter sandwiches and juice instead of Mama. It would be nice to hear himself called by his real name again.

When the door lock rattled, James got up and set the baby in the playpen. She whimpered a little and James thought maybe she’d start crying. But it seemed like she’d given up, just like Sean had. Like James almost had.

It was Mama at the door. He thought she’d set the tray down like she always did and take the dirty diaper. But although she picked up the diaper and tossed it through the open door, she kept on going down the stairs. She walked right past him into the room with the tray and set it down on the floor between the mattresses.

And she’d left the door open
.

James stared at that open door, at the stairs leading up to it. He was between the stairs and Mama. She was busy with something on the tray; from the steam, James thought it might be hot soup. She turned to Thomas, the steaming bowl in her hands, her back to James.

He sidled toward the stairs, keeping his eyes on Mama every inch. Sean looked over at him and he willed the little boy to keep quiet, prayed Mama wouldn’t check to see what Sean was looking at.

He reached the bottom of the stairs. Placed his foot carefully, quietly on the first one. Stepped up to the next, the next. Mama still hadn’t noticed.

He made it halfway up, lifted a cautious foot to the next step. Didn’t lift high enough. His toe caught on the wooden step and he stumbled, falling face first on the stairs and barking his shin on the edge.

Of course Mama heard the noise. She spilled the soup when she set it down in a hurry, came running toward him. He tried to make it up the rest of the stairs, thought maybe he could shut the door and lock her in. But Mama caught his leg before he could completely get to his feet. He banged his shin again, hard enough this time that he’d probably cut it through his jeans.

She half-dragged him down the stairs, across the floor to his mattress. Threw him down so hard, he accidentally hit Sean in the face with his elbow. His hand on his cheek, Sean started crying. James tried to tell the little boy he was sorry, but Mama kept slapping him on the face so he couldn’t talk.

She stood over him, her rage terrifying. “Maybe you won’t go to heaven when I send the others! Maybe you’ll go to the other place where the fire never stops burning!”

Mama grabbed his shirt and made him sit up. She took a candle from the pocket of her jeans and broke off a short piece, then stuffed it into his hands.

She pulled her lighter from another pocket and struck a flame. For a moment, she stared at the fire as if she wanted to climb inside it. Then she lit the candle and knelt before him, watching it burn.

CHAPTER 17

On my way to Beck’s, I took a side trip back into town to have a chat with Rich McPherson. I found him in his store, still a little hyped-up over the morning’s excitement. He jumped at the beep of the opening door, dropping a handful of phone cards he’d been hooking on a display.

He bent to gather them up. “Everything turn out okay with the little boy?”

“He’s with his mama, safe and sound.” I gave him a pat on the back, relieved at the absence of booze breath. “Good job. Sheriff owes you a medal.”

He hung the last of the cards on the counter display, then grabbed the empty box. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to take another look at that invoice for Mrs Lopez’s TV.”

Fingers wrapped tight around the box in his hands, he stared at me. “I might not have it anymore. I cleared out a bunch of the old invoices after you were here.”

“You threw them away?”

The box started to collapse under his grip. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure if I did anything at all with it.”

I wondered what had happened to Mr Helpful of two days ago. “Take a look, see if it’s still there.”

“The truth is, the owner of the store, Mr Templeton, didn’t like me showing you the invoice in the first place. He says that information is private.” He continued to mangle the box. “I’m sorry.”

“Any chance I could talk to Mr Templeton about that?”

“He’s an out-of-towner. Even I have a hard time reaching him.” He set the crushed box down on the counter. “What was it you were looking for? Maybe I could check the invoice myself and see if the information is there. I don’t think Mr Templeton would mind that.”

McPherson hadn’t struck me as the “company man” type, but maybe Templeton had busted his chops when he’d found out Rich had been showing the store’s business files to overly nosy private investigators. “I just wanted to know who installed the equipment Mrs Lopez bought.”

He went behind the counter and opened the file drawer. When he pulled out the invoice, he held it close, like a poker player protecting his cards. “Oh,” he said, the single syllable rich with meaning. He looked over at me. “It was Chuck Pickford.”

“What lamebrain hires a child molester to go into people’s homes as an installer?”

McPherson stuffed the invoice back into the filing cabinet. “He’s Mr Templeton’s brother-in-law. He only lasted a week. Too many customers complained.”

I thanked Rich and left. On my way to Beck’s, I passed the Gold Rush Inn again, but figured I didn’t have the time to stop. Ken probably had turned over booking Lucy to one of his deputies, and might already be at the mobile home park.

I’d definitely have to have another conversation with Pickford before I left. I couldn’t see Mrs Lopez confiding her deepest secrets to him, but maybe he’d seen something that would give me a clue as to where to look next.

Ken was parked out in front of Beck’s mobile when I got there, waiting inside his Explorer. He was typing into his onboard computer with the same henpeck he’d used back at SFPD, but he’d gotten surprisingly fast with the two-fingered approach.

He picked the warrant up from the seat and slung a digital camera around his neck. “The facility manager gave me the key.”

Ken knocked first, even though there was still no car in the driveway. “Paul Beck! Open up. I have a warrant to search your premises.”

As expected, no answer. Digging a couple of pairs of latex gloves from his pocket, Ken unlocked the door and pushed it open. The cloying smell of over-ripe garbage wafted out as we stepped inside. It didn’t have the familiar stench of a rotting body, but a thrill jetted down my spine at the thought that maybe Beck hadn’t answered because he’d offed himself in his bedroom.

No such luck. Beck was just a lousy housekeeper. He’d left a half-filled bag of trash in the kitchen and nature had taken its course over the few days he’d been gone.

Although dirty dishes littered the kitchen counter, he kept his living room neat. Not much in the way of furnishings – a thrift store sofa and coffee table, an easy chair with stuffing coming loose, a VCR and old 19-inch television. A few magazines on the table –
Newsweek
,
People
,
Better Homes & Gardens
for God’s sake – nothing that raised red flags.

Gloved up, Ken snapped some pictures, then rifled through the video tapes. “They all have commercial labels. No porn. No kiddy movies.”

I perused the pile of books on the floor beside the sofa. “He could have recorded over them.”

“True. I’ll take them in to be sure.” He started stacking the tapes on the coffee table.

“Books are all thrillers, mysteries. A Sudoku magazine. A book of baby names. That’s creepy.” I set it on the coffee table. “A newsletter from the Holy Rock Baptist church.” I slipped it out from the pages of the hardcover Beck had stuffed it in.

“Maybe he’s got religion,” Ken suggested with a straight face.

“Or maybe that’s a good place to meet kids.”

I lifted the sofa cushions and found a couple of well-chewed pencils, several pennies and a cough drop. Then I stretched out on the floor and checked under the sofa. Nothing but dust bunnies.

“Ready for the bedroom?” Ken asked.

I levered myself up and followed Ken down the hall. The double bed looked as thrift store as the living room suite, its chenille spread threadbare. The mini-blinds over the window were bent and, based on the tangled cord, were stuck halfway up. The lamp on the battered nightstand alongside the bed was missing its shade.

On a hunch, I lifted the side of the bedspread and bent down to take a look under the bed. I found a shoebox tucked up alongside the nightstand. “Can I borrow that camera?”

I photographed the bed with its upturned bedspread, then the box in place. Using Ken’s flashlight to extend my reach, I slid the box out, then set it on the bed.

I stepped back, musing that it would be nice if the box contained a stash of baseball cards, or Beck’s stamp collection. Wishful thinking.

Ken tipped off the lid, took a couple of pictures, then removed the items one by one and laid them on the bed. They really didn’t look like much – a couple of boys’ socks, a video game case, a bookmark, a small plastic weapon from some action figure. But knowing what those odds and ends represented to Beck gave me the heebie-jeebies.

“You think this stuff is recent?” I asked as Ken photographed Beck’s collection.

“The video game is for a Super Nintendo console. Those haven’t been out for a long time.” When I gave him a look, he shrugged. “I found one used at a yard sale. Cassie read me the riot act when I tried to give it to her.”

“Then maybe these are old souvenirs.”

Footsteps in the living room brought Ken to attention. He stepped between me and the bedroom door, had his hand on his Glock .22 when Paul Beck appeared in the doorway.

Beck gave us an innocent, puzzled look. “What’s going on?” His gaze fell on the bits and pieces we’d laid out on the bed. His eyes widened.

“You want to tell me about this, Mr Beck?” Ken asked.

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple working. “I found them.”

“Where?” I asked. “In some little boy’s bedroom?”

Beck shook his head. “Just around. The socks at the Laundromat, the video case in the trash. I’m allowed to pick through the garbage if I want.”

Ken gave him a nudge. “Let’s talk about this in the living room, Mr Beck.” We trooped out of the bedroom.

“Does your parole officer know what you keep under your bed?” I asked.

Beck suddenly found his toes fascinating. I stepped into his line of sight. “How do you think the parents would feel knowing you’re using their kids’ castoffs for inspiration on lonely nights? It’s not a long step toward using the kids themselves.”

Beck turned away. “I’ve been chemically castrated. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.”

I moved to get in his face again. “If you wanted to, you’d find a way.”

I saw the guilt in his eyes. A powerful need had driven him to collect those childish odds and ends. He knew I saw it, too.

Ken elbowed me aside. “Where have you been, Mr Beck?”

“At my sister’s place,” Beck said. “In Santa Rosa.”

“Have you been messing with those boys?” Ken asked.

“No!” Beck whined. “My sister knows better. She sends them off to her ex when I’m there.”

“Why so spur of the moment, Beck?” I asked. “You up and left with hardly a word to anyone.”

“Our father died last week,” Beck said, getting all misty eyed. “My sister and I are settling his affairs.”

I had a sneaking suspicion it was dear old dad who made Beck the man he was. I still found it difficult to generate any sympathy for him.

Ken pulled out his pad and a pen. “Write down your sister’s phone number. I need to talk with her.”

All woebegone, Beck took the pad. “You won’t tell her about my box?”

“Write down the damn number,” Ken growled.

Beck wrote the number in neat digits and handed the pad back to Ken. Ken stepped outside to make the call. The metal shell of Beck’s mobile home made cell reception impossible.

I tipped my head toward the bedroom. “All that crap in the box probably violates your parole.”