Revenant (19 page)

“Yes. That's the story.”

“Dad was upset when he came home.”

“It's terrible to see someone dead, especially a young person.”

“Dad said the killer lives here.”

I closed my eyes and held the phone as a war of ethics suddenly raged in my brain. Could I legitimately pump Avery's daughter for details? “I wonder why he thinks that?”

“He didn't say. He just said he thought it was personal. He said something about the cemetery but I didn't catch all of it. He was angry.”

“Jill, your dad might not like you repeating what he tells you in private.”

There was a tiny pause. “You're right. He'd be mad.” She felt the pinch of her chosen profession, and I realized that no conversation I had with her could ever teach her more.

“I won't mention any of this, okay?” She was an eighteen-year-old kid. She shouldn't have to spend her Saturday wondering if she'd end up in print.

“Will you still talk with me?”

“Absolutely.”

“I'm going to get Mom to call and invite you to dinner. She wants to meet you, too. She says you're the best thing that could happen to the coast.”

I smiled. “You two must make Avery's life a living hell.”

“Only when he needs it.”

This time I laughed. “Call me when you have time to meet.”

“I will. And thanks.”

I replaced the receiver and was about to get up to put coffee on when the phone rang again.

“Carson Lynch?”

“Stella?”

“How about brunch? Mary Mahoney's in thirty minutes?”

“Forty. I have to shower.”

“You're on,” she said.

I hung up and got busy. The day had already become very interesting.

T
he drive to Mary Mahoney's, a Biloxi landmark, could have been ordered up for a Cecil B. DeMille production. The sky was Wedgwood and the flowers a blaze of vivid Easter colors. Whitecaps frothed on the shallow waters of the Sound, kissing the shore with the last promises of cool weather. Even the traffic was negligible as I took Highway 90 to my destination.

Stella was seated at an outdoor table, a Bloody Mary in front of her and one at my place. Her red slacks matched a red-and-white-striped nautical blouse. She was casual elegance.

“What's going on?” I asked as I sat down. I drank half the Bloody Mary. Hair of the dog and all.

“You tell me,” Stella said. “I saw the news.”

I closed my eyes, but the images of the night before were still there. “I wish I knew something.”

“This killer's not going to stop, is he?” She was a woman who didn't fidget.

“I can't figure out what he's been doing for twenty-four years,” I said.

“I remembered who was working security for Alvin back in 1981.” She waited until she had my full attention. “Jimmy Riley.”

“Deputy Chief Jimmy Riley?”

“That's him.”

I thought about it a minute. “I'm sure Avery must have talked to him already. Do you think he knows something?”

She shrugged. “Back then, police made about twelve thousand a year. A lot of cops worked private-security jobs to make ends meet. Jimmy worked for Alvin. I was just wondering, if he was walking that parking lot like he was paid to do, why he didn't notice someone was digging it up and burying girls there?”

“Good point.” There was a tightness in my stomach that indicated I was on to something. I tried not to let my excitement show. “What kind of guy was Riley?”

“Nuts. You know his daddy was CIA, or that's what he said. He'd come in the bar before his shift started and he'd have a free drink and talk to the girls. He led a wild life, to hear him tell it. He grew up all over the place, and when he was a teenager his father disappeared in the jungles of Panama. Jimmy and his mother were living in the Riverview Arms along the Back Bay. They were poor and she had one way to support herself.” The ice had melted in her drink and she twirled her celery stick in the glass. “I think Jimmy had a lot to prove.”

I hardly knew Riley except by name, but I was surprised that he'd ever been involved with the likes of Alvin Orley. Stella was right, though. Back in the '70s and '80s, police officers did a lot of side security jobs to supplement thin paychecks. Protecting citizens in a parking lot, even for Alvin Orley, was a long way from anything illegal or unethical. But how could he have missed those graves?

“Are you going to talk to him?” Stella asked.

“First thing Monday morning.”

“Please don't tell him you spoke with me. I always had the impression that the one thing Jimmy could do well was carry a grudge. He has a lot of power now.”

“I won't say where I heard any of this.”

“I talked with some of the girls, but they don't remember any more than I did. There were so many men in that bar, and they all looked at the young girls.” She sighed. “We never believed we'd get older. Life has a way of slipping through your fingers.”

“I know.”

She finished her drink. “If you're out on the town some night, give me a call.”

“Thanks, Stella. I'd like to do that.”

She stood up. “Gotta go. My friend and I are driving over to New Orleans for the weekend.” She picked up her purse and started to pull out some money.

“My treat,” I said. “You can get it next time.”

“Thanks.” She went down the steps and out toward her car. Even the waiters stopped long enough to watch her walk. The woman didn't have to dance. Walking was enough.

I finished my drink and went to the office. I wanted to call Avery, check to see what he'd learned about the dead girl, get the composite that Captain Welsh had helped create and write up my story for the Sunday paper. My cell phone rang when I was halfway there.

“Carson.” Mitch's voice was tired, and instead of the guilt I expected, the sound of it triggered only concern. “I apologize for not getting you home last night.”

“I'm a resourceful woman, Mitch. You were busy and I didn't want to interrupt.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you identify the girl?”

“No. There hasn't been a missing-person report on anyone her age.”

That wasn't good. I hadn't watched the television news, but I was certain the discovery of an unidentified female body had been played big. Panic along the coast would be reaching a fever pitch by this evening. “Will you let me know?”

“Yes. I will.” He fumbled with some papers. “I'm going to send someone from my office over to the paper with the composite drawing we did based on Captain Welsh's description. Could you run that Sunday?”

“Sure.”

“We've got to find this man. It's not going to end until we do. Carson, I—” He broke off. “This has to end.”

There was such desperation in his voice that I tried to think of something comforting to say. “I'm on my way to the office now,” was the best I could come up with. “Did you get any fingerprints?”

“He's too smart for that.”

“Murder weapon?”

“No. Whatever he used was sharp and curved, and he took it with him, same as Pamela.”

“Toxicology?”

“Not back yet, but she wasn't sexually assaulted.”

“No surprise there,” I said. “It's not about sex. It's about power, maybe, or fear.” I remembered what Dr. Richard Jennings had said, and I wondered how much of it I should share with Mitch.

“How do you figure fear?” Mitch opened that door for me to continue.

“Just a guess,” I said. “A friend of mine suggested that this killer has some issues with women of marriageable age. You know, they represent matrimony and motherhood, but the killer is somehow screwed up about his mother.” I felt silly even saying it.

“Who told you this?” He sounded angry.

“A friend. I'm not going to print any of it.”

“That would be totally irresponsible. A story like that—some psychobabble—could start a stampede. Folks would be hunting the coast with pitchforks and torches.”

He was pissing me off, but I held my temper in check. He had a lot on his plate. “Take it easy, Mitch. I said I wasn't going to print it.”

There was silence on his end of the line. I broke it. “What's your take on the killer?” I asked.

He must have heard the note of anger in my voice. “I'm sorry, Carson. I'm frustrated, and I'm taking it out on you. This whole thing could blow up, and a speculative story about a lunatic killer could be the fuse. But I know you wouldn't print something like that.”

“Forget it. Look, I'm going to do a story. It's going to be fairly explicit, but nothing the television hasn't already covered. The only thing is the kids. I know they heard something. I want to know what. I've been more than responsible in my past stories.” I didn't move into the territory of threat. I hoped I wouldn't have to. Mitch had said he wanted to work with me, but it wasn't all a one-way street.

“Leave out the psychobabble, please. Maybe by Monday we'll have the girl identified, and we can hold the panic to a modified roar. Shit, you'd think someone would miss their daughter or wife or fiancée.”

He was really in a hole with another body and no physical evidence or leads. Stella Blue had given me a good lead about Riley, but I didn't mention it. Neither Avery nor Mitch had mentioned to me that Riley had once worked security at the Gold Rush, and I figured they both had to know. “I've held back a lot of stuff. We come clean on Monday.”

“You've got it.”

I hung up and ten minutes later pulled into the parking lot of the newspaper. It was ten o'clock, and Jack Evans's car was parked beneath an old mimosa tree that had showered it with faded pink blossoms. I walked over and touched the cool hood. It had been there for a while. Probably overnight, judging from the layer of dead flowers. I felt a pang of concern and hurried in through the janitor's door.

I saw Jack, slumped over his desk. My heart stopped. It pounded again with a painful thump, and I started running. I was almost at him when he sat up blearily and looked at me.

“What?” he demanded.

“Are you okay?”

“What's wrong?” His eyes were red and his face dull. He reeked of bourbon.

“Jack.” I looked around. It was one thing to be discreetly tipsy, but Jack was falling-over drunk. I put a hand under his elbow and lifted him to his feet. “Men's room. Now.”

We only hit two desks and a trash can before we made it down the narrow hall to the men's room. I went in with him and started running some hot water. I went to my desk and got a hand towel out of an emergency gym bag I kept in my drawer. When I went back to the bathroom, Jack was slanted against the wall.

“Sorry,” he said. “I'membarrassed.”

His words were a messy blur. “Try this.” I soaked the towel in hot water and draped it over his head. There was a muffled roar of disapproval. I took it off, soaked it in cold water and did the same.

“Shit! Carson! Stop it!” He batted feebly with his hands, but I ignored him. After ten minutes there was color in his face and fire in his eyes.

“Drink some water,” I told him. “And comb your hair. You have to walk out of here, and my guess is that by now there are folks in the newsroom.”

“I don't give a shit.”

“You'd better.” I propped him against the sink. “Drink water, and I mean it.”

He started sipping out of his cupped hand and I went to the snack room and brought back a steaming cup of black coffee and five Little Debbie oatmeal cookies. I gave him the coffee.

“Thanks.” He blew on it and sipped.

He looked a little better, but he had a way to go. I retrieved the Little Debbie cakes. They were pure sugar, fast fuel to burn off the liquor. He ate two and then begged off.

“Okay, but only if you let me buy you breakfast.”

“Look, I need to go home.”

I tried to gauge how intoxicated he still was. He seemed better, but any drunk worth his salt could imitate sobriety for at least a while.

“I'll drive you home.”

He searched my face. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you're drunk?” I asked.

“Why?”

“You could kill someone. You could go to prison. You could ruin your life.”

“I see.” He looked down at the floor. “It won't do any good to argue.”

“Nope.” I straightened his shirt and told him to tuck it in. “I'll wait outside.”

Two reporters had come into the newsroom, as well as the Saturday editor. If they noticed me coming out of the men's room, they didn't say anything. I retrieved my purse and walked out, picking Jack up on my way to the door. He lived in an apartment complex on Pass Road, and I drove him there. He got out at the curb. “I'll get my car later.” He was sober enough to be embarrassed.

“Forget it, Jack. Get something to eat, take four aspirin and sleep a few hours. You'll be fine. Call me and I'll come get you.”

He nodded and stumbled across the lawn to his door. I waited until he was inside before I pulled away. I drove back to the paper, slowing only when I heard the sirens as I turned off Highway 90. I realized they were in the parking lot of the newspaper. It took me a few seconds to realize that Jack Evans's car was on fire. Someone had torched it.