Night Tides (6 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

I
N HIS OFFICE DOWNTOWN
, Ethan poured himself a drink from the whiskey bottle in his desk. He seldom drank before noon, but since the day was probably shot, he figured no harm done. Besides, he had to deal with his father.

Walker Construction had its offices on the third floor of an office tower three blocks from the state capitol. As a teenager looking for work experience, Ethan had helped install the building’s light fixtures during summer vacation—for no actual pay, thanks to the unions. It had been his first taste of the utter, absolute satisfaction of seeing something
built
. Through his window, the capitol’s dome—identical in design to the one in Washington, D.C., but smaller in scale—rose above the tops of all the other buildings. In a real city, it would be surrounded by modern high-rises, but in Madison an antiquated law said that nothing downtown could be taller than the capitol. Ethan contributed to a PAC determined to change it. So far, they’d had no success.

The suite of offices was clean, sparsely furnished, and barely used; Ethan was too hands-on to supervise from a desk. And once contracts were negotiated, all problems could be handled on-site. He kept a receptionist to answer the phone and handle correspondence, but otherwise the office was empty. During busy times, he’d been known to go three weeks without setting foot in it. But his dad always wanted to meet there, seeing it as a tangible sign of his older son’s success. According to Marty, he never asked to visit the police station or city hall. It still amazed Ethan that a man who could adopt and unconditionally love a boy from another race had no problem making his love
entirely
conditional once Marty came out as gay.

Ethan tapped the touch pad, and his laptop screen came to life. His browser’s home page, as always, was
The Lady of the Lakes
blog. No one else in Madison knew more about what occurred on the isthmus than the man, woman, or group who anonymously ran this Web site. The real journalists hated it, even though they all referenced it; his reporter ex-girlfriend, Julie, swore like a sailor whenever its name came up.

Sure enough, there was the post about the girl’s disappearance, put online at 3:35 A.M. But the post was vague and didn’t even mention the girl’s name. He supposed the reference to the Celtic knot tattoo told the police it was the same girl, but those were now as common a fashion accessory as flannel shirts in the early nineties.

He scrolled down to the readers’ comments posted at the end. As always, someone claimed a conspiracy—in this case, a drive by the religious right to punish women who dared to step outside society’s preconceived roles. Others berated the police for not stopping the serial rapist or murderer clearly at work. Still others blamed the girls themselves for being
provocative
and
dressing like Tijuana whores
. When he got to the guy from Poland, Wisconsin, who blamed aliens, he smiled and switched over to his e-mail account.

Within moments, lost in the minutiae of correspondence, he’d forgotten all about the vanished girl. Not that he didn’t feel sympathy, but his own world was busy enough. Except for the dumb luck of having the bad guy leave evidence at his work site, the crimes ultimately didn’t affect him. Men like Marty were paid to worry about strangers. Ethan’s job was to build homes for them.

Almost as soon as he’d put the whiskey away and closed the drawer, his desk phone buzzed. “Your father’s here,” his secretary, Ambika, said in her lilting Hindi accent, then added, “He has an appointment.”

Ethan popped a breath mint, stood, and waited as the door opened. The man who entered the office was small and wiry, with a head that seemed too large for his body. The overalls and John Deere cap added to the effect. Ethan recalled how large his father had seemed when he and Marty were children, before the heart attack, before the cancer and chemotherapy. Still, the old man stood tall, and his hand didn’t tremble when he extended it. “Son,” he said almost formally.

“Dad,” Ethan replied, shaking the frail hand. “Sit down. How was traffic?”

“They’ve got University Avenue all torn up to build something. And I nearly ran over a kid with some kind of radio in his ear, one of those seed-pod things.”

“They’re called iPods.”

“They go in your
eye
?”

“It’s just a name, Dad. Want me to have Ambika rustle you up a cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks.” The man ran his sun-browned, age-spotted hand along the chair back as if brushing away the residue of the last person to use it. Then he sat, easing himself down with both hands on the chair’s arms.

Ethan knew better than to mention his father’s evident pain. Walker men didn’t hurt in public. “What brings you to town, Dad?”

“Well, hadn’t seen my boys in a while…” He trailed off and looked out the window. After a moment he said, “How is Marty, by the way? You see him much?”

“Saw him this morning. He looked good. Said to tell you hello.”

His father looked down. “He’s a good man, I suppose, for what he is. So are you, son. You both do me proud.”

It took everything Ethan had not to rankle at this little tap dance of feigned interest and approval. His father’s heart had closed with an echoing
bang when
Marty came out to him, and nothing seemed likely to reopen it. And whatever he truly felt for Ethan he kept just as secret these days. “Thank you, Dad. So how’s the farm?”

“Not too good, not too good. Production’s down, and some of the cows have been sick. Had to let the Lopez brothers go. I couldn’t afford to pay ’em anymore.”

Ethan knew this scene by heart. “Well, let me help you out, Dad. Things have been pretty good for me lately. How much do you need to get them back to work?” It didn’t matter that his two years in Iraq had left the company in such desperate financial straits that he barely had enough money to make his next payroll without liquidating some investments. He knew his part required him to be the successful, upright, heterosexual son who made good. It was a nonnegotiable clause in their parent–child contract, and it would terminate only with the old man’s death.

His father had his role down pat too. He raised one hand in weak, token protest. “Oh, son, I couldn’t ask that.”

“Dad, it’s the least I can do.” He reached for the ledger he’d put out on his desk when he saw his father’s name on the day’s appointment list and tore out the check he’d already made out and signed. “Family helps each other out, right?”

M
ARTY
W
ALKER SAT
at the counter in Rachel’s diner and watched the owner as she gracefully placed a plate of pancakes in front of a black man with dreadlocks, then twirled almost like a dancer to retrieve the carafe and fill a blond girl’s cup. The breakfast crowd had thinned down to half a dozen people, and the atmosphere was relaxed and casual. Light rock trilled from the CD player.

Marty shook his head. Rachel was a beauty, all right, all the more so because she had no idea of it. And, even more than that, she was a beautiful woman in a college town full of beautiful
girls
. If his idiot brother couldn’t see it, then he deserved to die as the lonely, bitter old man he was on his way to becoming, just like their father.

Rachel topped off Marty’s cup. “Good morning, Detective Walker.”

“Hey, Rachel. Sorry for tracking up your floor.”

“How’d you get so muddy?”

“Crime scene. Another girl disappeared.”

“I read about that on
The Lady of the Lakes
this morning,” Helena volunteered as she joined them. “Was it like the other two?”

“Yeah. I hope you and Rachel are being careful.”

“Neither of us are young, sexy college girls,” Rachel said with forced glibness. “We’re off the killer’s radar.”

“Speak for yourself, straight woman,” Helena said playfully.

“First, we don’t know it’s a ‘killer,’ we only know it’s an abductor,” Marty said. “Second, we don’t know what connection the girls have, or even if there is one. The M.O. is identical, but that’s all we’ve got. He might be choosing them in advance, or he might be going after random women who cross his path. So right now we want
everyone
to be careful.” He shook his head. “And I’d dearly love to find out how that goddamn blogger knew about it so fast.”

“You know, we needed you in here this morning,” Rachel said. “I almost had a cockfight break out, and I don’t mean the kind with roosters.”

“Oh, yeah? What happened?”

“You know Caleb Johnstone, that ex-Marine who’s always talking about how he ‘fought for’ this, ‘fought for’ that? He came in and insisted on smoking even though I asked him not to. I was going to throw him out, but one of the other customers decided I was a damsel in distress and tried to joust for my honor. I’m surprised you can’t still smell the burning testosterone.”

Marty smiled. “Did your knight wear blue button-down armor and khaki pants?”

“Yeah,” Rachel said guardedly.

“That’s my brother, Ethan.”

She scowled in disbelief. “He wasn’t Asian.”

Marty, mock-offended, said, “Who are you calling Asian? Anyway, it’s my fault. I’ve been telling him about the food here forever, so I guess he decided to finally try it. Did they really get in a fight?”

“No, just a pissing contest. Caleb left, and I asked your brother to leave too. I don’t need two ex-soldiers seeing who has the biggest Rambo over something as silly as a cigarette.”

Marty’s eyes opened wide. “Ethan told you about Iraq?”

“Yes. Well, not exactly. He mentioned it to Caleb, and I was standing there. Why?”

“Ethan doesn’t talk about it. Ever.”

“Why not?”

“Something happened. He had to go to Washington and testify right after he finished his tour. He never said why. Now he doesn’t even tell people he was a soldier.”

“He didn’t seem shy about it this morning,” Rachel said.

“Huh.” Marty finished his coffee. “I have to go. Paperwork calls. Listen, ladies, seriously: Watch yourselves. Tell everyone who comes in to do the same. We don’t know how this guy picks his victims or what he does with them, but it’s doubtful it’s for a picnic. Okay?”

“Sure,” Rachel said seriously. As he opened the door she called out, “Hey, Marty?”

He paused.

“Tell your brother—Ethan, right?—tell Ethan, um… maybe I was a little harsh. If he’d like to come back, the first cup of coffee’s on the house.”

Marty grinned. “I’ll pass that on.”

Helena took off her apron and said, “Rach, I’ve got to run out to my car before the lunch rush.”

“If you’re heading out, I’ll walk you,” Marty offered.

“Thanks,” she said, and preceded him out the door. When they were out of sight around the corner of the building, Marty said, “So it didn’t go too well this morning?”

“Ha! That’s an understatement. Didn’t you tell your brother that Rachel
hates
big macho types? He came on like Rambo and Schwarzenegger combined.” She scratched at a spot just beneath the waistband of her pants.

“I didn’t tell him anything, except that the food here was good. If he thought I was trying to fix him up with a girl, he’d run me over with one of his bulldozers.” Marty pointed his key chain at the distinctive unmarked sedan, and the doors unlocked with a loud
thunk
. “What did you tell Rachel?”

“Nothing,” she said with a guilty little smile. “If I had, I’d have been the new ingredient in the omelets.” Wincing, she scratched again.

Marty frowned. “Do I
want
to know why you keep scratching down there?”

“It’s a new tat, smart-ass. I don’t think the guy used clean needles. It’s been itching ever since I got it.”

“Where did you go?”

“A new franchise place. I got my other ones at Korbus Inks, down by the thrift store, but he went out of business.”

“Conventional wisdom says if it’s itching, it’s healing.”

“Conventional wisdom says Rachel and Ethan would make an awesome couple too.”

Marty laughed. “We’re terrible matchmakers, aren’t we? Maybe a fag cop and a dyke waitress shouldn’t try to fix up straight people.”

She slipped her arm through his and kissed his cheek. “I think we set our goals too high. We have to work up to Rachel and Ethan. Maybe we should start with something easier, like Ann Coulter and Michael Moore.”

“Well, Rachel said to send him back, so I will. I may have to Taser him to get him to cooperate, but I’ll do it.” He climbed into the car and buzzed down the power window before closing the door.
“Your
job is to make sure she’s in a good mood.”

“Honey, God Himself would have a hard time guaranteeing that.”

A
S THE AFTERNOON
sun baked Madison, the basement door opened and a harsh rectangle of light shone in on the three captive girls. They huddled together in a dark corner, gagged with duct tape, their wrists bound in plastic ties in front of them. They were still clad only in their panties. All were dirty and sweaty, since the basement had no air circulation and the day was sweltering, but they were otherwise unharmed. Ling Hu moaned with fright at the silhouette in the doorway, while Faith Lucas, her athletic body gleaming with sweat, looked numb. The newest girl, Carrie Kimmell, just stared, tears in her eyes.