Sketch Me If You Can (24 page)

“J
oin me,
sitzen
, have a seat.” BB grinned when Rory tracked him down to the cafeteria at Health Services. In one hand he was holding what looked like tuna salad on a roll. Disinclined to put it down, he used his other hand to pull out the chair next to him.

Rory took the proferred seat and placed the bag with the wallpaper under the table, to keep it safely away from hurrying feet and spilled beverages.

“I’m sorry to be interrupting your lunch,” she said.

BB chewed happily for another moment, then drank a few mouthfuls of soda to clear his palette. “Not at all. It’s always a pleasure to see you. Have something; lunch is on me.” He waved magnanimously toward the counter where three middle-aged women were selecting their meals.

Rory thanked him but assured him that she’d already eaten. He didn’t need to know that what she’d eaten was a cheese danish with her coffee on the way to work that morning. The truth was that she didn’t like eating in hospitals and morgues. She couldn’t shake the feeling that microscopic bits of disease and decay circulated through the air in those buildings, eventually raining down on everything, including the food. Since BB was obviously enjoying his meal, she didn’t see any point in putting him off his lunch. As she watched him take another hungry bite of his sandwich, she realized that nothing short of black mold or the bubonic plague was likely to make him lose his appetite.

“So, what can I do for you, Detective Rory, my dear?” he asked, using his napkin to wipe the residue of mayonnaise from the corners of his mouth.

Rory leaned toward him and lowered her voice, even though none of the tables closest to them were occupied.

“I think I’ve uncovered some evidence in Gail Oberlin’s death.”

“Interesting.” He popped the last bit of sandwich into his mouth. “I take it you still want to keep this between us,
entre nous
, on the QT?”

“More or less.”

BB licked his index finger and used it to pick up the few remaining crumbs on his plate. Then, satisfied that there was nothing left to eat, he sighed wistfully and sat back in his chair.

“Not a problem,” he said. “But I’m not quite sure what it is that I can do for you.”

“Well, since I don’t want to go through headquarters, I was hoping you might know a forensic tech who could discreetly process the evidence for me.”

“I imagine I could scare one up. What’s the nature of this evidence, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Some discarded sheets of wallpaper from the murder site.”

“And what are we hoping to find on it?”

“I have no idea,” Rory admitted. “I’m probably tilting at windmills, but like a friend of mine says, ‘When there’s only one road, it has to be the right one.’ ” Oh great, now she was quoting Zeke.

“Well, I don’t know your friend, but I’ve always been a big fan of Señor Quixote, myself. So let’s see if we can’t scrounge up some DNA for you.” He chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip as he went through the Rolodex in his head.

“I believe I have just the guy for your little project,” he said brightly. “Reggie Douglas. We’ve been friends since we were roomies at NYU several lifetimes ago. He really knew how to keep life in academia from getting dull,” BB added, staring off into space with a nostalgic smile. “Almost got both of us kicked out with his shenanigans, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way.” He dragged himself back to the present and focused on Rory again

“In my opinion, he’s the best in the business. And luckily for you, he’s never been a stickler for rules he considers arbitrary, pointless or downright ridiculous.”

“I can’t thank you enough.” Rory was so grateful that she had to restrain herself from planting a big kiss on his plump, pink cheek. The last thing she needed was to draw any attention their way.

“Now don’t go getting your hopes up too high,” BB cautioned as he pushed his chair back. “As good as Reggie is, sometimes there’s just nothing to be found.” Holding on to the table for support, he rose with a small groan. “Arthritis in the knees.”

Rory nodded sympathetically and retrieved the bag with the wallpaper from under the table. She handed it to him as they walked out of the cafeteria together.

“There’s a slip of paper in there with my cell phone and home phone numbers on it,” she said.

“I’ll give you a call as soon as I hear anything,” BB promised as they reached the lobby. “Take care now, adieu,
hasta la vista
.” With a wave of his hand, he headed off toward the elevators.

W
hen Drummond left the churchyard, he turned his horse southeast, in the direction of Goose Flats. During the desperate search for Betsy Jensen, her father believed Trask had taken her to the silver mining town that had sprung up there. The town, consisting of dozens of hastily erected tents and several frame buildings that weren’t favored to survive a good wind, didn’t have an official name yet and couldn’t be found on any map. But that didn’t stop a steady influx of prospectors with the glint of silver fever in their eyes, along with prostitutes, gamblers, and businessmen of questionable ethics.

Ironically, although the marshal had not agreed with Jensen earlier, when he considered all the places that Trask might have headed
after
killing Betsy, Goose Flats came up the winner. The town’s population changed by the hour, and no one cared much about his neighbor, as long as that neighbor had nothing of interest or value. Aside from the infrequent visits of the territorial marshals, there was no one charged with enforcing the law or keeping the peace, since the town didn’t exist as far as the government was concerned. That was likely to change before too long, but while it lasted, Goose Flats was the perfect place for a killer to hide out.

The only question in Drummond’s mind was how long Trask could go before the need to abduct another young girl drove him out of the shadows. Betsy had been his third victim, but the intervals between her abduction and the previous two were all different. There was no way to predict when he might strike again. Only one thing was certain: if he was in Goose Flats, he wouldn’t stay once the urge hit him. Families with young girls were in short supply there.

Drummond reached the town at dusk on the third day of his journey. He’d stowed his marshal’s badge in his pocket ahead of time. The folks in a place like Goose Flats weren’t likely to open up to a lawman the same as they might a fellow seeker of fortune.

There were no street lamps, so the only light that spilled onto the dry, rutted road at the edge of the town came from a few oil lamps and candles in the windows of the raw-boned buildings. The saloon was easy to pick out in the center of town. The large, two-story structure was glowing with light, like a sun to the lesser buildings arrayed around it.

A makeshift sign nailed over the doorway read simply, “Palmer’s.” The noise issuing from inside was as dense as any the marshal had heard in towns twice the size. It was a good bet that most of the population was in attendance. The question was whether or not Trask was among them.

Generally speaking, Drummond didn’t much care if he was able to take a suspect alive or if he had no choice but to shoot him. He’d never yet killed a man who gave himself up, but in Trask’s case he might make an exception.

He dismounted and tied the horse to the hitching post. He walked in with his hand poised over his gun and took a minute to get the lay of the place and its occupants. Trask wasn’t there. Of course, that didn’t account for the rooms upstairs. To the right, a bar ran the length of the room with men two deep knocking back shots of whiskey and trading stories, each more raucous than the next. The center of the room was crammed with tables, several of them with card games in play. The clientele was all men. The half dozen women Drummond spotted were clearly working for the establishment. With low-cut bodices and heavily rouged cheeks, they hovered over the customers, sat on laps and flirted with prospective bedmates. They all looked to be on the downhill side of thirty, a few even older, saloon girls past their prime who couldn’t find work elsewhere.

One of the women was standing at the bottom of the staircase, leaning against the newel post. Drummond wound his way to her through the maze of tables.

“Hello there,” she said once he was close enough to hear her above the din.

“Ma’am.” He dipped his head in polite greeting, as if she were a lady he was passing on the streets of a finer town. As far as he knew, manners had never hurt a man, and they were likely to encourage a woman to let her guard down a bit.

“A gentleman,” she said with a saucy smile that told him she didn’t entirely buy the act. “There aren’t too many of your kind around here.” From her smile, Drummond could see that she’d been quite beautiful once, and she still held herself as if she remembered what it felt like to attract the attentions of a man.

“Now that’s a downright shame, ma’am.”

“Call me Marie, Mr. . . . ?”

“Emmet’ll do.” He was sorry to give her a phony name, but he couldn’t have Trask finding out any sooner than necessary that he was on his trail.

“Pleased to meet you, Emmet,” she said with the hint of a curtsey. “What can I do for you tonight?”

He pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. It was a sketch of Trask he’d cut from a wanted poster. The artist had created a fair likeness of the man, from the eyes as black and empty as the bore of a gun barrel, to the chin that melted into a thick stump of a neck. He held it out to her.

“That’s my cousin, John Trask. I’m supposed to be meetin’ up with him here. Any chance you’ve seen him?”

Marie appeared surprised by the turn the conversation had taken, but she studied the picture for a moment. “He’s been in here all right,” she said with obvious distaste. “You might not want to be advertisin’ that you’re related.”

“Why’s that?”

“He was rough with a couple of the girls when he couldn’t, you know, perform. Said it was their fault. He got into a nasty tussle with Mr. Palmer over it. Palmer’s guys threw him out and told him he’d be shot on sight if he so much as stuck his nose in here again.”

“When did all this happen?”

“Two nights ago. But like I said, you’re well rid of him.” Marie smiled and sidled closer to him. “Surely there’s something more I can do for a fine gentleman like yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am, there surely would be, if I didn’t have some serious business that needs tendin’ to.”

“I imagine whatever that business is, it can wait till mornin’, Emmet.”

“Not long ago I might have agreed with you. But temptin’ as your offer is, it’s been my sad experience that mixin’ business with pleasure can cost a man too dearly. I found out the hard way, you don’t gamble with what ain’t yours to lose.”

She reached up and touched his stubbled cheek, letting her fingers drift down across his lips. “There’s no work to be done tonight,” she said softly.

Drummond grabbed her hand and yanked it away a bit more roughly than he’d intended. He saw the surprise and rejection register in her eyes. “Sorry,” he murmured. It wasn’t her fault. None of this was her fault. “You take care now.” He touched the brim of his hat to her and made his way to the door without looking back.

He felt oddly as if he’d found Trask, then lost him again, all in the space of a few minutes. The stone weight he’d carried in his gut for days was heavier, an anchor that could pull him down and drown him on dry land. As weary as he was, he wanted nothing more than to head out before the killer could put more miles between them. Since his horse harbored no such desire and was sorely in need of food and rest, the marshal made a middling peace with waiting until dawn.

Outside, night had settled in, its hem tucked neatly into the horizon. Drummond untied the chestnut and led him back to the stable they’d passed at the edge of town. He’d see to the horse’s feed and quarters, and with the proprietor’s permission, he’d bunk down there as well.

V
ince came for Rory at exactly six o’clock. It was the first time their schedules had meshed for a Saturday night together. But despite juggling a job and an unsanctioned investigation, she’d made time to see him twice since their first date. There’d been a hurried weekday lunch of clams and calamari outdoors at a little restaurant near the harbor in Port Jefferson, and a decadent Sunday dinner at one of the gourmet steak houses that seemed to have cropped up on every other block in Huntington.

The time they spent together always flew by, and Vince seemed as amazed by it as Rory was. She’d confided to Leah that she thought this relationship might really have legs. Leah was thrilled for her, demanding details and vicariously reliving the romantic, early days with her husband.

Zeke was somewhat less than thrilled. He seemed to begrudge her the time she spent away from the house and him. When she asked him point blank why he was acting like such a curmudgeon, he disappeared in a huff and didn’t appear again for two days.

Rory resolved to be more diplomatic about what she said to him in the future. For all she knew, lacking a corporeal body eroded a person’s self-confidence. After all, he was supposed to be in another realm among blithe spirits, not here interacting with earthbound souls.

On that Saturday afternoon before her date, she and Zeke were sitting in the living room, strategizing about her upcoming interview with Grace Logan. The meeting with Gail and Jeremy’s mother hadn’t been easy to arrange, since so much of her time was consumed with doctors’ appointments. In fact, the last time Rory had been scheduled to see her, the aide who attended to her had called at the last minute to say that her charge wasn’t up to having company. Rory didn’t have any choice but to be understanding and wish her better days soon. Like the others she’d already interviewed, Grace had no obligation to see her.