The Night Stalker (13 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T
he cashiers inside the Smart Buy were looking at baby pictures when I walked in. The store was quiet, and I went to the help desk, and asked the young woman on duty for the manager. She made a call, then cupped her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “He’s kinda busy. Who are you again?”

“My name’s Jack Carpenter,” I said. “I’m working with the police. I’m responding to the manager’s complaint.”

The young woman relayed the message, then pointed to the rear of the store. “Mr. Vorbe’s office is back there. Go to the meat section, and he’ll come out and get you. By the way, no dogs are allowed in the store.”

“He’s K-9,” I said.

I walked down an empty aisle to the meat section. The store’s interior was another step back in time: narrow aisles, a limited selection, and tinny Muzak playing over the sound system. I was no financial genius, but I couldn’t see the place making money.

Vorbe appeared through a swinging door. He was from one of the Caribbean islands, medium height and stocky, with a mouth filled with glittering gold teeth. He carried a scuffed metal cane and walked with a limp. He led me to his office.

Jean-Baptiste Vorbe’s office was adjacent to the meat locker, and brutally cold. I saw Vorbe grimace as he dropped into his chair. I made Buster lie down and leaned against the wall.

“You must work undercover,” Vorbe said in a beautiful lilting voice. “Your dog is a wonderful touch.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“Twenty years ago, I fled the revolution in my native Haiti in a boat made of bamboo and rubber tires. My limp is a souvenir from that trip.”

Haiti had been the most beautiful island in the Caribbean until a group of brutal politicians had ruined the country. In south Florida there were thousands of refugees like Vorbe who’d risked their lives in order to escape.

“How long have you worked here?” I asked.

“Almost fifteen years,” Vorbe said. “I got my citizenship, then took a job here. I was the night manager back in ninety-six when the young woman’s body was discovered in our Dumpster. I’m sure you heard of the situation.”

I did a double take. “Are you the same store manager who saw Abb Grimes on the surveillance tape and called the police?”

“Yes. I guess you could say I set the wheels in motion,” Vorbe said.

The store hadn’t changed, and neither had its manager. I rarely found myself at a loss for words, but this was one of those times. I took out my trusty pack of gum and offered Vorbe a stick. We chewed in silence.

“It is said in my country that silence speaks volumes,” Vorbe said. “Did what I just said bother you, Mr. Carpenter?”

Vorbe had a natural twinkle in his eye that I would have liked to have bottled and sold. I put my gum in its paper and tossed it into the trash. “I’m surprised you’re still here. Most people would have moved on.”

“I did move on. The store was shut down in ninety-seven, and the employees who wished to remain with the company were relocated. I went and managed another Smart Buy in Pensacola for five years, then came back.”

“But you said this store was shut down.”

“That is correct. The parent company attempted to sell the location to one of those big box stores, only the property was not large enough. Then they attempted to sell to a builder of strip centers, with the same results. The location remained vacant for five years. Then the parent company decided to open it back up.”

“Why?”

Vorbe’s eyes flashed and he smiled. “What other reason does a large company open a store? Profits!”

“Does this store make money? It seems rather small.”

“Its size is deceiving. The neighborhood has many shut-ins and elderly people. We home-deliver to two hundred and fifty customers each week.”

The phone on his desk lit up, and Vorbe took the call. It occurred to me that a real policeman might be calling soon, and that I needed to move things along. Vorbe hung up, and I said, “I was following up on the call you made to the police. What seems to be the problem?”

Vorbe steepled his hands in front of his face. “I have a rather delicate situation. Are you aware that LeAnn Grimes still lives in the neighborhood?”

I nodded.

“LeAnn is one of our delivery customers. I have known her a long time. I sometimes deliver her groceries and check up on her. She is a good woman.”

Vorbe was beating around the bush. I pushed myself away from the wall. Buster lifted his head off the floor.

“Are you having a problem with her?” I asked.

“No, with her son, Jed.”

“What happened?”

“Jed is a troubled young man. For several years he’s been coming here on a regular basis, and hanging around the Dumpsters. None of the employees wanted to confront him. Finally, I could not tolerate it anymore, and I asked him to stay away.”

“Did he?”

“For a while. Then this morning, an employee saw someone who looked like Jed sitting by the Dumpsters in a black sports car. I went outside to speak with him, but he sped away before I had the chance.”

“Did you actually see him?”

“Just the back of his head.”

“Was it him or not?”

Vorbe hesitated. “I
thought
it was him.”

“What time was this?” I asked.

“Nine-fifteen, thereabouts.”

“Was there someone in the car with him?”

“No, he was alone. I have known Jed since he was a little boy, and I don’t want to cause problems. But he must stop coming here. He’s scaring my employees. That is why I called the police station.”

I saw something that I hadn’t seen before, which was that Vorbe was scared. He knew something was wrong, even if he didn’t know what it was. I probably should have called the police at that point, but I didn’t. I wanted to first see for myself.

I clicked my fingers and Buster rose from the floor.

“Show me where Jed was,” I said.

Vorbe escorted me through the back of the grocery. We stopped at a large sliding metal door, and he pressed a red button on the wall. The door automatically lifted, and blinding sunlight flooded over us. I followed him onto a loading dock. The Dumpsters were directly across from us. They were big and smelly and surrounded by buzzing flies.

We took a flight of stairs to ground level, and Buster immediately began to circle the Dumpsters. He’d locked onto a scent, and I saw him paw at a pancake-sized stain on the ground. Kneeling, I touched the stain with the tip of my finger. It was sticky and red. When blood is exposed to air it takes on the consistency of the gook on my finger. Vorbe stood behind me, breathing heavily.

“I need something to stand on,” I said.

Vorbe got a milk crate from the side of the loading dock, and brought it to me. I stood on it, and used both hands to raise the Dumpster’s lid. The smell that greeted me was a toxic blend of rotten fish and produce. Taking a deep breath, I looked inside. The interior was filled with black garbage bags. By law, garbage had to be put in plastic bags in order to be collected. I sifted through the bags while breathing through my mouth.

A bag in front caught my eye. It was covered with dirt, and made me think that it had been laid on the ground. I grabbed the corners, and pulled it out. My eyes fell on the bag directly beneath it. Something sharp was sticking through the plastic. I gingerly touched it. It was a woman’s nose, small and perfectly shaped.

Shit.

I smoothed the plastic with both hands and gently pushed down. A woman’s face appeared, her mouth frozen in a silent, never-ending scream. I stared at the face for what felt like an eternity, then tore the plastic away with my fingers.

Piper Stone stared up at me, her lifeless eyes wide open. Her skin was cold to the touch, and she wore a necklace of ugly purple bruises. Her killer had broken her neck, then folded her up like a bundle of sticks, and tossed her away. Tears burned my eyes. I had only met Stone for an hour, but she had impressed me as one of the good guys. It made her death that much more painful, and I hopped off the milk crate.

“What did you find?” Vorbe asked.

“A body,” I said.

Vorbe grabbed the milk crate I’d been standing on, and turned it into a seat. Falling onto it, he emitted an unearthly moan.

“I cannot believe this is happening again!” he declared.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I
stepped into the building’s shade and called the mayor’s office on my cell phone. A secretary answered in a hushed voice. In the background, I could hear the mayor yelling at the top of his lungs.

“I need to speak with Detective Burrell,” I said.

“Detective Burrell is in a meeting with the mayor and cannot be disturbed,” the secretary said.

“Tell her it’s Jack Carpenter, and it’s urgent. I’ll hold.”

Vorbe came out of the building with a white towel draped over his arm. I watched him climb onto the milk crate and cover Stone’s face with the towel. The secretary came back on the line. “Detective Burrell says she’ll call you back.”

“I must speak with her,” I said.

“She’s with the mayor,”
the secretary whispered.

Back when I’d run Missing Persons, I’d come up with code words and expressions that had allowed the detectives in my unit to communicate with each other without anyone else being the wiser. I said, “I need for you to give Detective Burrell another message.”

“Sir, I can’t.”

“Write this down. Elvis has left the building. She’ll know what it means.”

“But—”

“Just do it.”

The secretary put me on hold. Thirty seconds later, Burrell came on the line. “Jack, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you’re going to get me fired.”

“Are you still with the mayor?” I asked.

“He’s taking a leak. What do you want?”

“I just found Abb Grimes’s defense attorney in the Dumpster where Abb put his victims. Her neck’s broken.”

I heard a sharp intake of breath.

“Does anyone else know about this?” Burrell asked.

“You’re the first person I called.”

“Give me directions to the grocery.”

I had smoked on and off when I was a cop. It was the only thing that I’d found that calmed me down after finding a corpse. I was puffing on my second cigarette when Burrell’s Mustang pulled up behind the grocery with a bubble flashing on its dashboard.

Burrell jumped out. I introduced her to Vorbe and escorted her to the Dumpster where I’d made the grisly discovery. Without a word, Burrell climbed onto the milk crate and looked inside.

“What’s her name?” Burrell asked.

“Piper Stone,” I said. “She’s an attorney at Crippen and Howe and was representing Abb Grimes. She told her boss this morning that she’d found information in the transcript of Abb’s trial that indicated evidence had been destroyed. She went to Memorial Hospital and spoke with Ron Cheeks, then drove to LeAnn Grimes’s place, and met with Jed Grimes. Not long after that, someone who looked like Jed was spotted by the Dumpsters by a store employee, and the manager called the police.”

“Are you sure that’s the right chronology?”

“Yes. It’s all been confirmed.”

Burrell climbed off the milk crate and dusted off her palms. “And then you met with Jed Grimes, and he ran away.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“So, do you still feel Jed is innocent?”

I heard the accusation in her voice. Burrell thought I’d screwed up, and had let a killer get away. Still, my gut was telling me that someone else had done this. And until I had cold hard proof that showed me otherwise, I was sticking with my gut.

“Yes,” I said. “I still think Jed’s innocent.”

Burrell called for backup on her cell. In what seemed like a few minutes but was probably longer, the grounds were swarming with dozens of uniformed cops and EMS. Burrell had the uniforms go to the front of the store, and seal off the property. It was a smart move, for it kept the media at bay, and let the police do their job without interference.

I stood next to the loading dock with my dog. A pair of medics lifted the garbage bag containing Stone out of the Dumpster and laid it on the ground. They cut the bag away, and lifted Stone’s body onto a gurney, and wheeled her into the back of an ambulance. Stone was not wearing any clothes, and it occurred to me that she’d died almost identically to how Abb Grimes’s victims had died. Twelve years had passed, yet it was like nothing had changed.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around. A homicide detective named Chuck Cobb stood behind me. A lot of people used to think Cobb and I were brothers. Cobb was tall and had a dark complexion, swam competitively in his youth, and had a smart mouth. Personally, I didn’t see the resemblance.

“Ready to get grilled?” Cobb asked.

“Sure,” I said.

Cobb led me inside the supermarket to a windowless room half-filled with boxes. I sat in a chair with Buster at my feet, while Cobb leaned against a wall and faced me. Flipping open his notebook, Cobb had me recount the events that led to my finding Stone’s body while carefully writing down my answers. It took a half hour.

Cobb then put away his notebook and turned on a camcorder. He repeated his questions, but this time taped my answers. Later, this tape would be compared to my written answers, in an effort to see if I was lying, or had unknowingly changed any facts about the case. This process took another half hour, and was draining.

Cobb shut off the camera. “All done. Anything else you can think of?”

“I think that’s about it,” I said.

“Next!” Cobb called out.

Vorbe came into the room, and took my chair. The morning’s events had done a number on him, and he was visibly upset. If I’d learned anything as a cop, it was that murder left a stain that never went away.

“I’m sorry you had to go through this,” I told him.

“Thank you,” Vorbe replied.

I went outside and stood on the loading dock. The area around the Dumpsters was a mob scene, with a small army of crime scene investigators scouring the grounds for evidence, which included removing every garbage bag from the Dumpster in which Stone had been found, and spreading its contents on the ground. I saw Burrell talking to an investigator, and tried to get her attention. To my surprise, she turned her back on me.

“Excuse me, are you Jack Carpenter?” I heard a voice ask.

I turned to see a man climbing up the loading dock stairs. He was about six feet and well built, with silver hair offset by piercing blue eyes. Despite the heat, he wore a black leather jacket zipped to his neck, and his clothes were wrinkle-free.

“Am I that easy to spot?” I replied.

“You’re the only one here with a dog,” he said.

“Who said this was my dog?”

“And a sense of humor. Is he friendly?”

I shook my head.

“How about his owner?”

“Sometimes,” I said.

The man had reached the top of the stairs, and paused to dust away some dirt on his pants. Then he said, “I’m Special Agent Roger Whitley, FBI.”

I’d heard of Whitley. He ran the FBI’s Behavioral Sciences Unit in Quantico, and specialized in catching serial killers. One of his cases had been the basis for a really bad Hollywood movie, and had turned him into a household name.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

“I need to speak with you about Jed Grimes,” Whitley said.