The Botanist (5 page)

Chapter 7

Lars Stieger sighed, trying to decide what to do. He’d been trying to speak with the lead detective on the case—Oliver was his name—for two days now. It just wasn’t happening. He wondered if he could get the man’s home address. He supposed it wouldn’t be hard; he was a PI after all, but perhaps it would be easier to simply wait until midnight and then approach the police station. In his experience on the job, cases like this kept their detectives up into the wee hours most nights.

Stieger wanted to go through the county records. The bodies were found in the middle of uninhabited desert and Stieger was curious about the history of that land. Did it mean something to the killer? Why did he choose it for the grave site?

It wasn’t that Stieger needed permission to look through the records—he had no problem taking the initiative and doing it himself—but he wanted to be sure no one else was. That would just be wasted effort.

He supposed he could inquire at the records office if anyone else had looked through them. At least he would have something to do, and something to report to Claire.

With that in mind, Stieger jammed a baseball cap on top of his salt and pepper hair, donned a pair of sunglasses, and got in his car.

As he made his way through the crowded streets of downtown Mt. Dessicate, he took in details, storing them up for future use. As a PI, details were often the most important part of his work. Cases were made or broken based on the nuances of life. Mt. Dessicate looked very different than he remembered. The last time he’d visited had been nearly ten years earlier, and of course all the press and extra uniforms were absent then. Still, Mt. Dessicate was growing, not by leaps and bounds, but a little at a time. If the growth continued at this slow and steady rate, Mt. Dessicate might be a metropolis in its own right in another twenty years.

At his last visit, there’d been a sheriff and his deputies. Now there was a department with detectives. That alone was evidence of the population growth.

Ten years ago—it didn’t seem like it had been that long. They were saying that this desert predator may have been operating for several decades, which meant that the last time Stieger had visited the small town, the killer was already pulling people off the highway. The thought made him shudder. Thirty-five years in law enforcement didn’t give a man immunity from monsters.

The courthouse was larger than Stieger would have expected for a county this rural. Once inside, he realized it doubled as the only public school around. Kindergarten through twelfth grade met in one of four classrooms. A playground and sandbox were out back, and a multi-purpose room served as lunch room, assembly hall, and gymnasium. A small, stuffy-looking courtroom occupied an entire wing of the building, while the record office shared a room with a pathetic school library.

On his way out of town, Lars had picked up a box of donuts, wolfing down one of the custard bismarks in two mouthfuls. He left the rest of the box untouched. As he approached the receptionist in the courthouse, he hid the donuts under his coat.

The woman behind the counter was middle-aged. White streaks weaved through her brunette hair, and small half-moon spectacles rested on her nose. She smiled politely when Lars leaned against the counter, but the smile seemed strained.

“May I help you?”

“I hope so, ma’am. I need access to your county property records.”

The woman, whose name tag read, “Helga,” eyed him suspiciously. “You investigatin’ that business that’s been all over the news? Those skeletons found in the desert there?”

“I’m part of that investigation, yes, but I’m only looking into one lead of many. Could you show me to where I can find the information I need?” He
was
investigating that case, so it wasn’t a complete lie. He just hoped she didn’t call the Mt. Dessicate Police to check and see if they had a man going through county records.

The woman made no move to help him. “Don’t suppose you have a warrant now?”

Lars smiled. “No, ma’am. Past property ownership is a matter of public record. I don’t need a warrant, just directions.”

The woman looked like she’d just swallowed a sour plum, but she came out from behind the counter. “Follow me.”

Helga was a small, plump woman who waddled crookedly as she walked. Her shoes had toothpick heels that ticked out a muffled staccato, even on carpet, as they went.

“Has anyone else investigating this case asked to look at any records?” he asked as they walked.

“No.”

She showed him where the records were kept, and pointed to a card catalog for references. Lars sighed. He supposed he shouldn’t have expected a dusty, rural county like this to be on the cutting edge of technology.

“Ma’am?” She’d started back toward the lobby, and when he called she turned slowly, as though she couldn’t believe he had another question. “I was hungry this morning and picked up a box of donuts on my way. One was enough for the sugar fix I needed, though, so if you want to set this out in the lobby for any hungry employees, you’re all welcome to them.”

She walked up beside him and looked down her nose at the full box. After a moment, she took it from him. “Know how to butter up county employees, eh?”

He grinned at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

She tried to look stern, but her mouth was turning up a bit at the corners. “I’ll be at my desk if you need anything.”

“Don’t think I will for a while, ma’am, but thank you.”

She gave him the scantest of smiles before turning to go. After she was out of his sight, he could hear the flapping of the plastic-and-cardboard box as she opened it in the hall.

Lars smiled to himself as he turned to the records. Worked like a charm.

Chapter 8

The drive south was long and boring. Despite leaving at ten in the morning, Alex didn’t make it to Mt. Dessicate until after four.

The town used to be sleepy, but now it was hopping with activity. Dozens of police cruisers lined the streets, all with the names of different cities painted on their sides. Mt. Dessicate had called in help from nearly every jurisdiction in the state. The natives were outside their houses, despite the scorching July heat, chatting over fences and pointing at all the alien things that had shown up in their small city in the last forty-eight hours.

Every parking lot, curb, and red zone was filled with cars from all over the country. Alex saw a lot of license plates from neighboring states—Nevada, Idaho, Colorado, New Mexico—but then there were some from up north and even a few as far away as Georgia and Ohio. These were the people who were hoping or fearing—perhaps a little of both—to find word of their lost loved ones among the victims of the mass grave.

Of course there were reporters on every curb, hoping to corner a cop or get a quote from a grieving family member.

Alex drove around for twenty minutes before finding a parking space in front of a general store. She noticed several cart boys scanning each car that entered the lot suspiciously. It occurred to her that perhaps they were ticketing non-customers who were parking here.

Pulling a smaller purse from the backseat of her car, and putting her wallet inside, she walked into the store, swinging her purse ostentatiously. For honesty’s sake, she bought a soda and a candy bar, making sure to pocket the receipt for later, and then slipped inconspicuously out the side door, making sure the boys didn’t see her leave.

She glanced back and saw a huge black truck parked in the spot next to hers, completely obscuring her car from the cart boys’ views. Hopefully that would buy her enough time to find the detective and get back without being cited.

She walked around downtown Mt. Dessicate—which was smaller than the smallest suburbs up north—for another fifteen minutes before locating the police station. The massive sprawl of squad cars and uniformed officers made it difficult to pinpoint the central hub.

Finally she arrived at the police station, only to find a human, blue-uniformed barricade had been set up in front of the main doors. It was probably to keep the media from entering the station, but Alex was suddenly not sure she would be able to get in.

She approached one of the uniforms. He was tall and lean, Caucasian, but with a large, square jaw reminiscent of Native Americans, and chocolate-brown eyes. He might have been handsome if not for the resemblance to a horse Alex once met.

“I’m not a member of the press,” she said quickly. “I just need to get inside.”

The suspicion didn’t leave his eyes. “Who are you? A cop?”

“No, but I need to talk to one of the detectives. I’ve spoken with him before and have some urgent information for him.”

The cop looked indecisive. “Is this about the Shakespeare case?”

“What?”

“The mass grave they found.”

Alex didn’t answer right away. Something told her that if she said yes, he wouldn’t let her in. Her silence was enough, though, and he shook his head.

“You’ll have to speak with the tip line.” He pointed down the street to his left. “Second building down, the one with the big white pillars. That’s where the tips are being processed. Most are on the phone, but I’m sure someone in there can take your information down and pass it along. I can’t let you in the station, ma’am.”

Alex sighed. She would rather talk to that detective than to a civilian volunteer, but she supposed she wouldn’t get anywhere by putting up a stink. She thanked the man and went in the direction he’d pointed. As she passed the station, she noticed a narrow alley that ran along its left side. She glanced back at the man who’d directed her, but he’d moved on to the next hopeful trying to get into the station.

Alex ducked into the alley, wondering why the press wasn’t all over this crevice.

When she got to the end of the alley, she understood why. Two heavy metal doors bridged the station to the alley, but neither had knobs on the outside, so they were either service exits for the night crew—or the type of alarmed doors only used in emergencies.

Alex walked to the back of the alley, but it didn’t extend around to the back of the structure, instead dead-ending after running the length of the building. With a sigh, Alex turned and headed back in the direction of the street. Just as she reached the two double doors again, one of them opened, and two men walked out. She was walking close to the building, and they turned for the street, not noticing her.

Knowing this was perhaps her only chance to get into the station, Alex ran as quickly and silently as she could, praying the two men wouldn’t turn and see her. She caught the door just before it shut. Its weight slammed heavily against her fingers, and it was all she could do not to cry out. She pulled the door carefully back out and managed to slip inside just as the two men turned onto the street.

Alex found herself at the end of a skinny corridor that had half a dozen personal offices attached on either side. The air-conditioned interior was a relief. Not wanting to speak with any bureaucrats, she hurried past the offices, not even glancing to the side to see which ones were occupied.

Exiting the corridor, she found herself in the lobby of the tiny police station. Despite having been there before, it was hard to recognize the interior of the structure. It had been quiet, sparse, and uncluttered the last time; now it reminded her of the central office of a political campaign.

People in temporary work spaces were packed cheek by jowl, and all of them seemed to be in an inordinate hurry to do something. Phones rang, people ran or power-walked zigzags across the room, others shouted to coworkers who were across the building. There were only enough computers for half the people in the room, and everyone was sharing—a.k.a. fighting—over them.

Amidst the chaos, no one noticed when Alex entered from the corridor. Wondering who to speak to, and understanding why the tip line was necessary, Alex soon located the building’s front desk. It was hidden under papers, boxes of files, messages, and a dozen phones, and surrounded by desks and busy people.

Alex found a void in the smaller desks where she could approach the large one. She thought the short, plump woman behind the desk might have been the same one who had worked the night shift when she filed her report four years ago, but she couldn’t be sure.

“Excuse me, could you—”

“You’ll have to give me a minute, honey.”

The woman, whose nametag read Rose Mitchell, had gathered up an armload of manila file folders and practically ran out from behind her desk with them.

Alex blew out her breath and rested her arms on the counter. Five full minutes passed and Rose still hadn’t returned. Alex didn’t know what to do besides wait. She was sure if she tried to go anywhere, she’d be trampled.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone walk by on the other side of the desk, but didn’t pay any attention. She was keeping her eyes peeled for any sign of Rose. A moment later, she realized the person was still standing there, and turned her head to look at him.

The detective from the news, the same one she’d spoken to four years ago, was staring at her. He was mercifully carrying only two file boxes, rather than the four that seemed to be the rule here, and looking at her like a puzzle he couldn’t figure out.

When she looked at him, he came toward her.

“Do I know you?”

She smiled briefly, surprised he had some recollection of her.

“No, but we had occasion to meet about four years ago.” When he didn’t answer, she went on, telling herself to look at his eyes rather than his scar. “Actually, you’re the person I came in here looking for. I just didn’t think I’d actually be able to speak with you.”

He set his boxes down on the desk that was between them. “
Who
are you?”

Alex stuck her right hand out. “Alex Thompson.”

He shook her hand, but still looked confused.

“I drove through your town, filed a report in the middle of the night.” His brow was furrowed. “I had been pulled over, but thought the cop was acting strange? Ringing any bells?”

He was still staring blankly at her. Finally he shook his head. “I can’t say I remember the incident, but you look very familiar to me.”

“Look.” Alex leaned on the counter again. “I know the detectives aren’t supposed to take tips, except from the hotline, but I’d really love to speak with you. It won’t take more than five minutes. If now isn’t a good time, I can come back later today or tomorrow?”

“You have a tip about
this
case?”

“What happened to me that night, the thing I filed the report about, may be related.”

It was then that Rose came back to the desk and heard Alex’s last statement.

“If you have a tip, the building you’re looking for is down the street, honey. You aren’t supposed to be in here.”

Alex sighed. “I know.”

Rose frowned. “You
know?”

Alex put her hands up. “I’ve been trying to call the tip line, but there are so many I can’t get through. I was on hold for more than an hour this morning, so I just drove down instead.”

The detective’s eyes widened, but whether because he was impressed or annoyed, she couldn’t have said.

“Even if I go through the tip line, it could take weeks before anyone gets to mine, and I feel very strongly that this may have something to do with your case.”

Rose was shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but we can’t just—”

“Rose.”

Rose stopped and turned surprised eyes on the detective.

“It’s fine. I’ll speak with her.”

Rose opened her mouth to protest, but he talked over her.

“I know we can’t do it for everyone, but she’s here now. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

After a moment, Rose looked up Alex up and down, then shrugged. “Whatever.”

After
hours of work, Lars leaned back and rubbed his eyes. A visit to the john would reveal shrunken pupils and red streaks, he was sure. That was one problem with looking through county records: hours of work and burning eyes could get results, but they were small potatoes. With these kinds of records, the information payoff wasn’t worth the weight and time of the work, but that didn’t change the fact that the research had to be done.

Lars had found some intriguing things, even if they didn’t give him a complete picture.

The land south of Mt. Dessicate on which the mass grave had been found was owned by the county, and had been for decades.

The last time it had been sold to a private owner was in 1946, to a man named Alastair Landes. Lars couldn’t find any records for Landes or his family before that year. From what he could tell, Landes simply showed up in town, picked a spot, bought some land, and began a life for himself. He’d started a ranch and been a profitable, upstanding man for the next decade and a half. After that, Lars found a number of liens that had been put against the man’s house for non-payment of property tax. Landes always redeemed the lien long before he lost the property, but obviously he’d had some troubled years.

The property records couldn’t tell Lars much else, except that an heir had been listed when Landes died who could have claimed the parcel but never did. There might be any number of reasons for that.

Lars’s next foray was into the birth and death records.