The Laura Cardinal Novels (97 page)

Steve dumped the pan in the sink and ran soapy water, then hobbled outside. He felt as if he were his grandfather's age the last time he'd seen him.

The site drew him. He walked up the stream bed and stood over the oblong hole, the yellow grid strings pulled taut. Still amazed that Jenny Carmichael's ghost had come to him. Why now? Why him? Because he lived here?

The detectives had been skeptical. They'd asked him about his grandfather's car. He'd read that Jenny Carmichael had been seen with a man and a white car not far from Rose Canyon Lake. He tried to think if he knew anyone around here who had a white car. The cabins out here were few and far between, though, and he didn't really know anyone.

Steve
did
know he was the number one suspect. He couldn't blame them; his story didn't make much sense. But he couldn't tell them he'd seen a ghost. He barely believed that himself.

It would make them suspect him more.

The female detective, Laura Cardinal. He'd seen her name somewhere before. In the papers. On the news—investigating cold cases. She looked young for that kind of coverage. But then he supposed that the media zeroed in on the young and good-looking.

He stared at the empty hole where Jenny's bones had been interred all this time.

Wondered if Jenny's ghost had appeared to his grandfather.

His grandfather had been in a retirement home the last year of his life, but his Alzheimer's would have started a long time before that. That marvelous mind, breaking up like ice floes in a vast ocean of increasing emptiness. The man who knew five languages, the man who had written eleven books, eight of them published. Sportswriter for the
Boston Globe
in the 1930s. War correspondent in the Second World War.

More than that, he had been the man Steve most related to in his own life. His grandfather had been the person most like himself. All the times Steve came out here to clear his head, to get over some disappointment or another—especially when he was in his twenties—his grandfather's cabin was his sanctuary.

The best times of his life had been here in this cabin. When he and his sisters had the run of the place. His grandfather had been a big part of that. Teaching them about the mountain—its history, plants, and animals. The geology.

He wished he could talk to his grandfather now.

Steve walked back to the cabin. As he stepped up onto the screened back porch, he knocked one of the open boxes with his hip. Loose papers and manila envelopes spilled over the lip of the box and landed on the floor: more writings by his grandfather. He'd been meaning to go through them, but he'd been distracted.

Distraction doesn't
begin
to describe this situation.

Feeling like an old man, he bent down to pick up the papers and the envelopes. One of the manila envelopes slid from his hand and photographs spilled out onto the floor. They were from one of this grandfather's albums, the kind where you pressed the photograph onto adhesive cardboard, then smoothed a transparent sheet over it. Steve had found several albums like that, the adhesive long gone and the photographs sliding to the bottom. He'd ditched the albums and put the pictures in manila envelopes.

He picked the photos up and shoved them back into the envelope, but one escaped, fluttering down and landing face up. It was of Steve and his former fiancée, Linda, at the Pine Creek picnic area near Pine Valley, California.

He remembered that day. They'd gone to a wedding in El Cajon the day before and decided to have a picnic at Pine Creek before heading home. A man at a neighboring picnic table had offered to take their picture. They’d stood together, Steve's arm around Linda's shoulders, the two of them smiling for the camera. Linda sleek and beautiful.

Steve didn't know his grandfather had this picture, but he wasn't surprised. His grandfather had always liked Linda.

Which was one reason why Steve never told him the true story about their breakup. To spare his grandfather's feelings, to avoid seeing the shock in the old man's eyes.

And of course, there was the matter of pride.

Laura was working up a request to go to California when fate interceded in the form of Fullerton PD detective Peter Waddell.

She'd just gotten back from Micaela Brashear's house when the phone rang. Waddell introduced himself, telling her he'd gotten her number from Chuck Dumphy, Heywood's PO.

“I'm looking at Heywood for a child abduction,” he said. “Thought we could exchange information.”

Laura told him about her theory that both Micaela Brashear and Kristy Groves had gone to carnivals where Heywood worked.

“Micaela Brashear,” he said. “That's the girl who was on the news awhile back, right? In Arizona?” He paused. “She's lucky to be alive.”

He told her about his own case. A ten-year-old girl had disappeared from her bedroom in Fullerton, California, three months ago. “At first we looked at the parents. We looked hard, but there were things about the case that didn't fit. They had two other children, and there were no signs of abuse. The father was confined to a wheelchair. A screen to the little girl's bedroom had been cut from the outside—they had old-fashioned sash windows that they left open because they had no air conditioning. Not only that, but a registered sex offender lived across the street.”

“Robert Heywood,” Laura said.

“Uh-huh. I'm sure Dumphy told you about him. He's had a history—peeping, masturbating outside schools. It escalated to a kidnapping, although that was pled down. That was in 2001. He had picked up a thirteen-year-old girl and had her with him for almost a week. She’d said she was with him voluntarily and that they’d planned to get married. Apparently he'd groomed her pretty well, used the Internet to get to know her. The charges were reduced to sex with a minor. He got probation.”

“What did he go to prison for?”

“Assault. Nearly killed a guy. Heywood had cocaine on him, so they were able to put him away for a while. The guy he beat up? The father of the girl he was with. Heywood pleaded extenuating circumstances, claimed the father was stalking him.”

“Was he?”

“Shit yes. Wouldn't you?”

“So they were unable to charge him for the kidnapping.”

“Girl wouldn't testify.”

Jerry Grimes finished Laura's report and squared it neatly on his desk. “You know our budget situation.”

Laura said, “I know.”

“This could be nothing. Micaela Brashear didn't recognize him.”

“But Patsy Groves did.”

He sighed, leaned back. “It was a long time ago. She could
want
to recognize him. You know that. The kid who was taken in Fullerton. Detective Waddell is pretty sure about this? That this is the guy?”

“He's looking at him hard.”

“What about Detective Molina? Couldn't the sheriff's department send him? Instead of you?”

Laura knew what he was thinking:
They've got more money than we do.

“Detective Molina's not going. He has to be in court this afternoon.”

Jerry sighed again, rubbed his broad face with both hands. Left some of his wiry gray hair standing straight up.

“Try not to spend too much time there. The lieutenant is a bean counter, in case you haven't heard.”

She'd heard, all right. “If I leave now, I could be back by late tonight.”

“Or tomorrow. Use your own judgment.”

Laura's flight got her into John Wayne Airport in Orange County by two in the afternoon. On approach, the plane dropped down under cloud cover. Laura saw what she always did when she flew into LA: a gray, sprawling grid of freeways, shopping centers, industrial parks, and swimming pools.

She recognized Detective Waddell right away. Tall in shirtsleeves and a tie, he wore a gold shield on his belt. He had a long rectangular face, brown hair graying at the temples, and a serious expression.

“Good to meet you,” he said formally, taking her hand in his giant one. “Also good timing. Sandy Heywood's shift starts at three.”

Laura fell into step beside him. They bypassed the carousel and headed for the front doors of the terminal, past the statue of John Wayne, out into cool, slightly misty air, redolent of exhaust. The smog finally burning off. “Where are we headed?” she asked.

“Train station. Sandy's a waitress at The Spaghetti Company. She usually has her breakfast at the train station café before her shift starts. She likes to watch the trains come in.”

Detective Waddell drove a brown Chevy Caprice with plenty of miles on it. He didn't make small talk as he drove. They took surface streets to I-5, cut through Pomona on California 57. Other than the air quality, strip-mall LA was identical to the newer parts of Tucson, but on an infinitely larger scale. Laura spotted an In and Out Burger, felt a pang of hunger. Everything gleaming dully under a gun-metal blue sky.

Waddell turned right on Santa Fe Avenue and drove all the way to the end of the street, which terminated at the Santa Fe train station. He parked near The Spaghetti Company and stared out the windshield, making no move to get out. “I've been in communication with Sandy Heywood a few times, especially since Heywood took off. I've got my own opinion, but I'd like yours.”

Laura knew that underneath this request was the not-so-subtle implication that he would be the one to interview her. He expected Laura to observe Sandy Heywood's reactions and develop her own impression of her.

Laura unbuckled her seat belt, and it slithered back to its home on the door. “I think it's right that you take the lead. I will have questions, though. What's the best way for us to work it?”

“You could take over after a while. We'll play it by ear.”

That was fair.

They left the car and walked toward the train station. The depot must have been built in the twenties or thirties. The long building was Spanish in style: stuccoed walls, arches, rough-hewn wood porch supports, and window sashes painted brown. Red-tile, gabled roofs. The depot retained the feel of a time Laura did not know, but remembered from old movies—that gracious, garden Los Angeles of Bogey's day. Two of her favorite movies were the 1946 version of
The Postman Always Rings Twice
and
Double Indemnity
. She wondered if the railway scenes in
Postman
had been filmed here.

They walked through the lobby of the train station and out to the back deck, which fronted the railroad tracks. Passengers were disembarking from an Amtrak train—Waddell told her it was a Surfliner, taking people up and down the coast. The passengers trooped over to a bridge spanning the tracks, disappeared inside stairwells on either side. Reemerged on the track apron down below, headed their way.

“That's her,” Waddell said, nodding in the direction of the umbrella-shaded tables set up alongside the depot under a sign that said The Santa Fe Express Café.

A woman sat by herself, watching people disembark. She had a thin, boyish body and short, black hair that made her look like an elf. She wore black slacks, a white blouse, and black, lace-up shoes, probably the uniform for her job at The Spaghetti Company. One ankle rested on the opposite knee, if you could call it resting. Her foot jiggled frenetically as she fiddled with the straw from her drink.

As Laura watched, Sandy Heywood dropped the straw and lit up a cigarette from a silver case on the table. Her leg going all the while.

When Waddell's shadow crossed her face, the woman looked up without surprise. “You again,” she said.

Waddell pulled up a chair. “How are you doing, Sandy?”

“Same.” The muscles in her face were still, her mouth barely moving, but her foot picked up the pace, jiggling faster. “Who's she?”

“This is Detective Cardinal. She's with the Department of Public Safety in Arizona.”

“Sounds like a mouthful. What does
she
want?” Avoiding looking at Laura. At least that was the impression Laura got. Hard to tell, because Sandy Heywood's sunglasses, which were shaped disconcertingly like alien eyes, were black and bounced back light.

Waddell said, “Robert been back?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because I'm interested.”

“Is
she
interested, too?”

“Should she be? I heard that Robert's got friends in Arizona. You think he's there?”

Sandy Heywood set her foot down, leaned back, and stretched her legs out. Looked at her feet.

“Sandy?” Waddell prompted.

“I don't know why you're bothering me. I don't know where he is.”

“Doesn't that bother you? You are his wife, after all.”

“That's right, I am his wife. In case you didn't know, a wife can't testify against her husband.”

“I'm a little confused. What would you have to testify about? He's not under arrest. Is there something you know that I don't?”

“I know that we've been harassed.
I've
been harassed. All we're trying to do is rebuild our lives, and then you come around with your nasty hints and all this
bullshit
—”

“You asked your sister to take Katrina two weeks after Robert got out of prison. Why'd you do that? Send your daughter to live across town? I know why. You didn't like the way he was looking at her. It bothered you. You told me that, remember?”

“I did? I don't think so.”

Waddell shook his head. “I don't understand you, Sandy. You're a good person. You want what's best for your daughter—you're even willing to give her up to keep her safe. You know what happened to that little girl Robert got to, don't you? They found her by the roadside, naked, covered with ant bites. Raped and strangled to death. He threw her away like she was so much trash.”

“He wouldn't do that.” But she said it dully, without conviction.

“Sandy, you know he did it. You know it in your heart. I thought you quit smoking.”

“I decided to start up again.”

“Why? Because you feel guilty? Because you were worried about Katrina, and you felt bad about that other little girl?”

Sandy Heywood hunched in her chair and put her hands over her ears. “I'm not listening to you.”