Darkness peering (27 page)

"Did you get the toxicology report?"

"Not yet."

"What about Buck Folette?"

"Claims he was planted on a barstool in Laconia the entire night hut
can't remember which bar. We're checking it out."

"Claire's landlord?"

"Says he was home alone, mainlining Laverne & Shirley reruns. Tapper's
taking his statement as we speak."

"I thought you put a car on him, too?"

"We did, for two weeks." McKissack sighed. "We're understaffed and
overbudget. It was a judgment call."

It was starting to get bitter out. Evergreen branches stabbed at the
crisp blue sky, and the sun seemed as remote and shiny as an ornament.
She decided to give voice to the question that'd been torturing her all
night long. "So how do two teenagers disappear into thin air?"

McKissack glanced back up the steel gray road tapering off like the tip
of a knife. "Seven-thirty P.M." Nicole goes over to her friend
Shelly's house. Shelly's mom goes to bed at eleven, and Nicole takes
off on her bike. If anybody saw her pedaling around that night,
nobody's reported it."

"You searched all the alternate routes she might've taken to Dinger's
house?"

"Thoroughly. It was fruitless. In the meantime, Dinger rides his bike
off into the sunset and is never heard from again. They both vanish
into the mist."

A gust of wind twisted her coat open, and she yanked it shut. "Somebody
has to have seen them."

"We're getting plenty of tips on the hotline. Usual percentage. Eighty
percent crap, twenty percent promising. I'm hoping somebody comes
forward before it's too late. Fuck." He stomped his feet. "I'm
freezing my nuts off."

"How much time have we got, McKissack?"

"I don't know."

Her eyes blurred with tears. "I keep feeling more and more lost."

His features softened. "Maybe we've got time," he whispered
unconvincingly. "Maybe we've got a window here."

"He kept her alive for three weeks," she said hopefully.

"To the day."

"When a victim's face is mutilated, especially the eyes, it suggests
the assailant and victim knew one another." A faint taste of bile
leaked into her throat. Billy and Claire knew each other. "I wish I
wasn't..."

"What?"

"Nothing." She shook off the thought. "Maybe it's not a relative or
friend? Maybe it's a complete stranger?"

"I seriously doubt that." McKissack fastened the top button of his
overcoat. "We're looking at Ozzie Rudd, Buck Folette, Dinger Tedesco
possibly the landlord."

"Dinger got off work at seven P.M. the night Claire disappeared. He
has no alibi from that point on."

"Talk to his employer. See what you can dig up."

THE INSTANT SHE WALKED IN THE DOOR, RACHEL REALIZED

that Vaughn Kellum or one of his employees must be a tailor. Still,
the sewing up of Claire didn't require skill so much as utter cruelty.
Claire Castillo had all her dry cleaning done at Kellum Kleaners, but
so did a lot of people, including McKissack. Those who could afford
him swore by him, but Rachel preferred the cheaper places in Commerce
City.

The nineteenth-century Queen Anne was painted moss green, a sign in the
window reading: SATISFACTION GUARANTEED. Inside, the air was
oppressive. Rachel couldn't imagine inhaling dry cleaning fumes all
day long. The walls were pine-paneled, and the

view of Delongpre through the plate glass was obscured by a web of ivy
growing abandoned on the window-sill. Directly across the street from
Kellum Kleaners was a vacant lot, weeds twisting up through cracks in
the asphalt. If you stood close enough to the glass and craned your
neck, you could see where Delongpre intersected with Main.

"Mr. Kellum?"

"Please, call me Vaughn." He acquainted himself by touching her on the
arm. Vaughn Kellum owned and operated Kellum Kleaners along with two
old-time employees, Ray Fielding and Jose Manuel. He was in his
mid-thirties, tall and slender with a charming smile and perfect teeth,
his Nordic good looks marred only by the thick corrective lenses that
magnified his green gaze all out of proportion. His eyes were
deep-socketed and seemed to roam without purpose, suddenly settling on
her with distracting intensity. He wore jeans, leather moccasins and a
light blue shirt whose pockets brimmed with pens and receipts, and had
a pair of flesh-colored hearing aids looped around behind his ears.
"The police have been in a couple of times asking about Claire," he
said. "I still can't get over it. She was such a good person."

The customer pickup counter was made of oak, the carpet was dove gray,
the walls matte white. In back behind the garment trolleys, Jose was
pressing clothes. To his right was a large worktable littered with
facings and pincushions, measuring tape, and a tailor's ham. To his
left were two dressmaker's forms--a man's suit on one, a
large-shouldered lavender dress on the other.

Vaughn Kellum escorted Rachel into his office, just off the lobby to
the left of the cash register. Walking through the door was like
stepping into a more genteel age--rosewood tables, Aubusson carpet,
faded photographs in vintage frames. There was a picture of Vaughn
shaking hands with the mayor, another of him posing with the chief of
police. McKissack looked ruggedly handsome in his uniform, and she
felt her neck going

pink. The large, impressive office was well lit and the heavy velvet
curtains were drawn shut against the noontime glare.

Vaughn explored the room tactilely, lightly touching the wall as he
made his way toward the carved mahogany desk. His computer was on, and
in front of the large-print screen was a magnifier on a fixed stand.
Braille Dymo-tape labels were stuck to every surface, and a Perkins
Brailler "typewriter for the blind" affixed to a typing table was
pushed up beside the desk. The computer keyboard was large-type, not
Braille. Behind the desk on a bookshelf sat a small television set
tuned to the weather channel. The volume was on high, announcer's
voice booming into the room, "Now let's take a look at the East
Coast--"

Vaughn clicked off the set. "How can I help you, Detective?"

"Please, call me Rachel."

He nodded. "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thanks. I'm fine." She opened her notebook. "Dinger Tedesco
works for you part-timer"

"I hired him last March. Sweeping, discount mailings, that sort of
thing." His corrective lenses were as thick as manhole covers, his
gaze both luminous and unnerving.

"You're aware," she said as delicately as she could, "that Dinger and
Nicole Castillo have been missing for almost a week now?"

"Yes." Vaughn's gaze may have been blank, but his face was alive with
emotion, his deep concern evidenced in the wrinkle of his brow, the jut
of his chin, the deepening of the parenthetical lines around his mouth.
He had left the door of his office open, and Rachel could see out to
the front of the shop. Ray Fielding was behind the counter, attending
to business. A customer had just walked in, the intermittent hiss of
the steam press punctuating their conversation.

"What are Dinger's hours?" she asked.

"Three to five, four to six. It's flexible. Sometimes if we don't

have anything for him to do, he'll finish his homework in my office."
His face tensed. "His parents must be going out of their minds."

"It's tough on everybody," she acknowledged.

"I think he might've left his latest chemistry assignment here." His
hands explored the desktop. "Do you see it?"

Rachel got up and scanned the desk for a teenager's scrawling
penmanship, but found nothing amidst the balance sheets, discount
flyers, self-threading needles and stacks of invoices. "I don't see
anything." She sat back down, struck by how flippantly people used
terms like "see" and "hear."

"He's acing math and chemistry, but flunking English."

She nodded. "You live here, don't you? Upstairs?"

Vaughn smiled. "I grew up in this house. Dad started the business in
'54. The three of us--me, Mom and Dad--lived here until Mom passed
away. Then Dad had his stroke. Now it's just me."

"And you were home the night Claire disappeared?"

"It was a slow day. We closed shop at seven. I went upstairs and left
Dinger sitting in front of my computer."

"He didn't leave at seven?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"He had an English paper due the next morning."

"When did he leave?"

"I don't know. Seven-thirty or eight, maybe."

"And we're talking about the night of October fourteenth?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Kellum ..." Rachel hesitated. "How well do you hear?"

The friendly, unruffled reception he gave to this rather rude line of
questioning bolstered her opinion of him even further. "As a child,"
he said, "I was diagnosed with moderate to severe hearing loss in both
ears. These hearing aids are designed to correct severe to profound
losses. They're very comfortable. But

if I removed them, I wouldn't be able to hear you unless you shouted,
and even then I probably wouldn't understand what you were saying."

She nodded.

"As long as I remember to replace the batteries, I'm fine." He waited
a moment, then said, "That was a joke."

"Oh." She gave an embarrassed smile.

"By the way, Detective, I don't mind answering these types of
questions. The more informed people are, the less confusion there is
in the world."

"I appreciate your candor." She flipped through her notebook, anxious
to change the subject. "So you close at seven?"

"Every night. Like clockwork."

"Did you hear anything unusual that night? Scuffling sounds? Screams?
An argument, maybe? A shout?"

"My hearing aids amplify all sounds, but I've learned to filter out
those I don't wish to focus on, just like 'normal people do. So when
I'm listening to the radio, that's pretty much all I hear. Background
noises don't usually register."

Rachel nodded. "And you say you went upstairs that night?"

"Ray came over around nine. We had a few martinis. Ketel One,
straight up with an olive."

Rachel glanced through the open doorway at Ray Fielding, a blue-collar
guy with a walrus mustache.

"What does Ray do?"

"He's our master tailor."

"I'd like to speak with him."

"Now?"

"After we're done." Rachel glanced at her notes, then paused. "Was
Dinger still here when Ray dropped by at nine?"

"No."

"Does Dinger have his own key?

"The door locks behind you and he knows the security code."

"And you trusted him?"

"Sure."

"What about the cash register?"

"Jose makes nightly deposits."

"How often do you let Dinger stay after hours?"

"Just a couple of times so far. Like I said, I trusted him."

"And you wouldn't be able to hear anything from upstairs, like the
slamming of a door when he left, for example?"

"What are you getting at, Detective?"

"You say Dinger was in the shop until seven-thirty or eight P.M. Claire
Castillo disappeared shortly after eight P.M. I'm trying to establish
if there's a connection."

He shrugged. "All I can say is, Dinger's a hardworking kid, a good kid
whose family can't afford a computer. I was shocked to hear what
happened to Claire, even more shocked when Dinger and his girlfriend
disappeared. I don't know what's happening to this town." He shifted
in his chair. "I don't sleep well at night."

"To tell you the truth, neither do I."

"Are you a religious person, Detective?"

"Not exceptionally."

"Neither am I. But I find myself praying lately."

Rachel glanced through the open door again. Out front, a silver haired
woman in a camel's hair coat shot Rachel an annoyed glance. Lowering
her voice, Rachel said, "Claire telephoned you several times the week
before she disappeared ..."

"Excuse me?" He tapped his hearing aid as if it weren't functioning
properly.

She spoke up. "Claire made several phone calls to you the week before
she disappeared ..."

"About the charity dance, yes. She was helping us organize it. It's a
lot of work. The other board members wanted to cancel, in light of
what happened, but I think Claire would've been disappointed. She was
very involved in community outreach."

"Did she mention anything about Dinger or her sister? Anything at
all?"

He thought for a beat, hands folded on the desk blotter. "Not that I
can recall."

"Your shop faces Delongpre. Did you see anything unusual on the street
that night ... ?" She stopped herself, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I
didn't mean ..."

His smile contained a hint of melancholy. "The neighborhood kids used
to call me Magoo. The term 'low vision' refers to loss of vision which
can't be corrected by medical or surgical procedures. It's the most
misunderstood disability in the United States. People think 'low
vision' means you're just a 'little bit blind." I don't use a cane or
a guide dog, and I pride myself on leading a fairly independent life.
But without my hearing aids or my glasses, I'd be pretty
defenseless."

"I see," Rachel said, then bit her tongue. There was that "see" word
again.

"With these corrective lenses, my vision's 20/150," he continued. "I
can spot objects and people across a room and recognize colors. I use
a hand magnifier for the newspaper. The books I buy are large-print,
and I can also read Braille. I have a Tell-Time VII Talking Watch, but
to answer your question, no, I can't see out the window."

She cringed. "That was dumb. Forgive me."

"Please, Detective. I'm more than happy to oblige."

She closed her notebook. "Did Dinger ever confide in you?"