Don’t Talk to Strangers: A Novel (23 page)

“Bathroom’s down the hall if you need it.” He pulled out a plastic container. “Downstairs
is locked because the steps are steep and Mom could fall. Gym equipment mostly, laundry
room. Nice view of the lake on the balcony off my bedroom upstairs, though. Make yourself
at home.”

The downstairs was neat but lived-in. I looked up at the loft. I wanted to go up there,
see what his bedroom looked like, if the bed was made, if it was messy, or if he was
one of those guys who used a tube squeezer on the end of the toothpaste. I mean, how
much more perfect was this man? He rescued dogs, taught kids on his day off, cared
about rehabilitating prisoners, and took care of his mother. I went back to the kitchen.
Meltzer was opening a package of flour tortillas. “So what does a county sheriff have
to drink?” I opened the fridge, saw tomato juice, two percent milk, an open bottle
of Chardonnay with a purple silicone wine stopper. “Interesting,” I said, in my best
Colonel Klink.

“Uh-oh. Am I being profiled based on my choice in beverages?” He loaded tortillas
with spinach, heaped them with cheese, folded them on a dry skillet, and lit the flame
on a gas range. His arm brushed against mine as I searched for a glass. He grabbed
one out of the cabinet and put it on the counter for me.

“It’s the orange juice guys you have to worry about,” I told him and took my tomato
juice to the table. Pecan trees shaded the thick, green lawn; his mother’s cabin was
just yards away. I didn’t think I’d
be able to live so close to my own mother. I took a drink of juice and wished it were
a bloody Mary. I looked at Meltzer in his short-sleeved uniform, tanned, muscled arms,
blond fuzz like corn silk on his forearms. “Scene techs find anything at Peele’s place?”
I asked.

He turned our quesadillas with a red spatula, glanced at me. “Little blood in the
bathroom sink, but it would be unusual to find a man’s sink without a little blood.
We know it’s Peele’s blood type. DNA will come eventually. Digital specialist is looking
over his devices. No weapons in the house, and the only pornography was for grown-ups.
We did find an axe. He also has a woodpile and a fireplace. No blood evidence on the
axe. Not a big surprise, is it? The man tore down his house. I’m convinced that renovation
served a dual purpose—new house, destroyed evidence. He’s not going to keep a bloody
murder weapon around.”

“Frustrating,” I said. Logan Peele was a sexual sadist. I knew that. I’d seen my share.
The nature of his past crimes, the two girls he was convicted of raping, the elements
of the crimes, the things he said to them, the things he did to them, the fact that
one of them was his own daughter—all confirmed that assessment. Victim suffering heightened
his fantasies. I remembered his eyes, the smug way he looked at me while he held that
ice cube to his swelling face. “They went over his truck too, right?”

Meltzer nodded. “Every inch. I’ve pulled one patrol off days and one off nights to
keep an eye on him. We have a little gap but he’ll be on our radar soon.”

I wondered again if it was Logan Peele who had slipped the note under my windshield
wiper. There was nothing in the language I could link back to him. But this offender
knew every word would be analyzed. He’d be careful. He’d camouflage and manipulate
and direct this investigation every chance he got.

The front door rattled and Meltzer left the stove to open it. Ginger rushed through
the living room and found me at the table, nudged me with her nose. I petted her.
“Does she get a treat or something?” Her ears came up at that, and her head cocked
to the side.

“Now you’ve done it,” Meltzer said. He pulled a box from a lower cabinet. Ginger ran
to him. He gave her a treat and sent her to the
living room. I watched her eat it over her bed, carefully clean up every crumb, then
make about eighteen circles before she found the right position to lie down. Meltzer
pushed our food from the skillet to a plate, brought plates to the table. He poured
himself juice and sat down next to me.
“Bon appétit.”

Our glasses clinked. He held my eyes too long, until I looked down at the browned
flour tortilla on my plate. White cheddar oozed out over wilted spinach. I took a
bite. It was warm and gooey and comfort-foody. He watched me. “Not bad for a guy who
lives with his mom,” I told him.

“I tuck myself in too.” That look again. The smile.

What was I doing here? I’m not one of those high school girls I talked to today. I
know that if some guy is flirting with me and I agree to have dinner with him alone,
there will be more flirting. And hopes. What was Ken Meltzer hoping for? A kiss? A
beginning? Or just a quickie? Had he fantasized about fucking me in the upstairs loft?
I took another bite and looked at him, at that full bottom lip, at his strong, tan
hands, the too-long lashes. I thought about watching him pull the boat up to the dock
when I first arrived and that long vein popping up in his biceps. I kind of wanted
to run my tongue over it right now. I could see myself climbing those steps with him
and watching his clothes come off. I could imagine the pressure of his hard body against
my thighs, his hands, his mouth.
I could
. I admit it. Okay, so I have a history of outright sabotage. It’s like I’d stayed
up studying
The Anarchist Cookbook
, then applied it to my life—a poison-tipped dart here, a strategically placed incendiary
device there. I thought about Rauser at home. Not boring, not easy, not perfect, wonderful
Rauser. The man I loved. And yes, we have those days now, those days when we aren’t
intimate, when he barely brushes a kiss by me, remote-control days with him on the
couch when he’s not working, barely moving. But we were settling into something good.
We were. So why were the walls closing in? I thought about him fuming over the silverware
drawer, questioning me about the bond enforcement job I’d taken to bring in Ronald
Coleman. I thought about how I dreaded those moments when he turned into my dad.

Meltzer was watching me. “I don’t know if I want to ask what’s going on inside your
head.”

“Probably not. How about your head?” He’d had a prisoner commit suicide inside his
jail and he’d had to notify the boy’s mother. He hadn’t said a word about either.
“Must have been a tough day.”

“Awful. That woman, Mrs. Davidson, she’s just like you said, a hard-luck case. She’s
worried about how to pay for the funerals of two kids. Tracy’s remains are ready to
be released.” He slid his tortilla on the plate, reached for his glass. “Sometimes
I’m glad I never had kids. I think the heartache might outweigh the rewards. Watching
Molly and Bryant go through losing Melinda … I don’t know how you get through something
like that. How about you? You ever want that life?”

“Stay-at-home mom sounds kind of good. Only without the children.” Meltzer chuckled.
We ate quietly for a minute. “I talked to Bryant today and to Melinda’s friends, the
three girls she walked home with the day she disappeared.”

“Anything interesting?”

“A music teacher named Tray.” I didn’t mention Cochran’s homophobic comment about
track lighting, that he’d told me the sheriff was
the
bachelor to catch, or that he’d listed the reasons everyone hated me—stranger, female,
Asian. “Melinda had band practice once a week,” I told him. “Tray’s name isn’t in
the original reports. I went by the school but I missed him.”

“We didn’t talk to him at all?” He got up and came back with a bag of chips, poured
some out on our plates.

I shook my head. “Would have been easy to miss without a thorough victimology. One
of the hazards of knowing the victim. I’ll give you a report in the morning with a
list of everyone I’ve spoken to and what I’ve learned. Just so we’re all on the same
page. And I want to follow up on the band teacher tomorrow. You know anything about
him?”

Meltzer ate a potato chip, shook his head. “Not anything personal. Tray really turned
our band into something. Brings in a lot of support for the school. You like him for
this?”

“I like him until he’s excluded.” I decided not to tell the sheriff what the girls
had told me—rumors about the teacher’s inappropriate behavior with the kids. Something
about those girls felt off to me. I wasn’t sure why they’d lie, and maybe they hadn’t,
but I wasn’t ready to throw a man and his career under the bus. Not yet. “I need a
background on him, residences, employment history, credit, criminal, whatever we can
find. You want my office to run it?”

“We’ll run it first thing. I’m not sure I can afford your office.”

I took the last bite of my quesadilla, felt the string of cooling cheddar hit my chin.
Ken Meltzer leaned over. I swallowed. He touched my chin with his napkin and looked
into my eyes. Lightning shot through my body. He was going to kiss me, I realized.
And I wasn’t moving away.

The front door swung open. “Harold, I have been looking everywhere for you.” It was
a small woman with short gray hair. Her voice was scolding and age-dried. Ginger jumped
up and ran to her. “Hello, Red,” the woman said, and patted the dog.

Meltzer looked at me helplessly. “She thinks I’m Dad again. I’m sorry.” He raised
his voice. “It’s okay, Mom. I’ll be right there.”

“Harold, who is that woman?” his mother demanded. Ginger was weaving around all our
legs, panting, tail wagging.

“I’m Keye Street, Mrs. Meltzer.” I went to her and held out my hand. She took it.
“I’m working with the sheriff’s department.”

“Is that what you’re calling it these days?” she said. She’d seen the almost-kiss.
I froze.

Meltzer laughed. He took both her hands and looked at her. “Did you ditch Patricia
again?” His voice was soft with his mother, patient.

She frowned. “I don’t want to see that woman. She’s a pain in the ass. Is
Castle
on? I think I’m missing
Castle
.”

Meltzer picked up the remote control and handed it to me. “DVR,” he said. “I have
to check on Patricia.”

“Can I watch with you?” I asked Mrs. Meltzer. She looked at me with the wide brown
eyes she’d passed on to her son. I clicked the remote and sat down on the couch, patted
the place next to me. In the background Meltzer was talking to the caretaker. Mrs.
Meltzer sighed and sat down. Ginger jumped up next to her. I found the saved programs
menu. Twenty-three episodes of
Castle
. I grinned up at Meltzer and got a shrug. I hit
PLAY
and we both leaned back into the couch. Mrs. Meltzer put the balls of small, bare
feet against a leather storage square that doubled as a coffee table. I kicked off
my shoes and did the same thing. She nodded her approval.

Meltzer hung up the phone. “Mom, Patricia says you were taking a nap while she was
taking a shower.”

“I tricked her.” She was staring at the screen as the opening segment played. “Oh,
I love this part. We need popcorn, Ken.”

“Right.” He went to the kitchen. I heard cabinets opening and closing, the microwave
coming on.

“You know,” Mrs. Meltzer confided to me in a whisper, her eyes fixed on the screen.
“I can’t remember one storyline in this show. I just want to see if they’re going
to make out.”

“I hear ya,” I said. She sent an elbow my way, a soft jab that meant we’d connected,
shared a joke.

A few minutes later the cabin smelled like popcorn. I glanced over the back of the
couch at Ken Meltzer awkwardly pulling a hot bag out of the microwave, throwing it
on the counter like it was on fire. He caught me looking at him and mouthed,
Thank you
.

A minute later he sat down on the other side of his mother—Hitchiti County’s sheriff,
his rescued dog Ginger, his mother, and me on a couch watching network television
and eating popcorn. It couldn’t have gotten any weirder. I mean, I never watch network.
But it was a welcome and strangely wonderful end to an otherwise dark day. I didn’t
know then that the day and the darkness were just beginning.

20

Meltzer’s phone rang as I was preparing to leave. I’d just made it through my first-ever
episode of
Castle
. I watched him check the display, answer while I talked to Mrs. Meltzer. He plugged
one ear with his finger and walked quickly into the hallway. His body language had
changed. Whatever news he was getting wasn’t what he wanted to hear. I saw him click
off a couple of minutes later and make another call. His voice stayed low. He returned
and looked at me. “We have to go,” he said. Then to his mother, “Mom, Patricia’s coming
over to watch TV with you, okay?”

The door opened and a heavyset woman walked in wearing knee-length shorts and flip-flops,
a man’s T-shirt. Her face was round and very plain but you had the feeling she was
about to laugh. Brown bangs squared off over her eyebrows. She smiled at me. The sheriff
didn’t bother to introduce us. He had other things on his mind. He slipped into his
harness and checked the S&W 40 he carried.

“Will you feed Ginger?” he asked the woman. “And make sure she gets out again before
you leave?”