Final Grave (25 page)

Meri Ann took her verbal whipping, a small price for what she’d found.

“So describe the damning evidence,” Dillon said.

“Harold Graber has a taxidermy studio adjoining his cabin. And Uberuaga found traces of chemicals used in taxidermy on both sets of bones.” Meri Ann noted Dillon’s interest and continued. “Graber’s dad was a licensed taxidermist. Kept his shop, utensils and chemicals on premises. We need to know if Harold junior had knowledge of the methods.”

Dillon nodded. “Find out. That’s task one. Task two, find Graber. Any ideas?”

Mendiola shook his head. “We’ll issue a bulletin. Pick him up.”

Dillon held her hands up. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I want a chat with Graber as much as you do, but if he’s our perp, I don’t want him running for cover. Find him, but don’t let him know he’s found. Just tail him till we decide what to do. And I’d suggest we get a warrant to search his place.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Something’s nagged me all day, Fehr. What you said about being on television.”

“What’s that?”

“Everything happened after your appearance. We’ve established our perp saw you, wants you here. He’s out there, somewhere, but hasn’t rushed in for the kill. Sorry about the phrasing, Fehr. But how long will this go on? I’m thinking we could speed things up if we bait him, with… let’s say another TV appearance. I’m thinking tomorrow.”

“What the hell?” Mendiola rose from his perch on the credenza, shaking his head.

Meri Ann squirmed in her chair, her first thought of Becky and tensions building at River House. “I’ve got no problem with that, but I’m staying with a friend, and I don’t want her in danger. That’s an issue with me.”

Dillon made a note on a yellow legal pad. “We’d work it out. If you agree, I’d authorize heavy surveillance, give it all we got. I’ve checked with the sheriff and he’s given approval. Concurs your appearance might roust out the UNSUB.”

Mendiola threw up his hands, his expression incredulous. “Are you buying this, Fehr? Because if you are, you can kiss my ass if you think all the cops in Ada County can guarantee your safety.”

Dillon nearly snapped her pencil in half. “Watch your tongue, Jack.”

“Since I’m key player,” Meri Ann said, “Let me think it over.” She needed time to talk to Becky, to consider the possibilities and the plan.

Dillon appeared pleased, not jumping-up-and-down pleased, but pleased. She said, “What I see is a short spot on the news. We’d hit all six affiliate stations at six and eleven. With what, I don’t know yet.”

A soul-weary calm came over Meri Ann. “I do,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. “I’d make a plea for my mother to call me again.”

Mendiola turned away. He looked out into the darkened hallway. Maybe it was easier for him than dealing with the pain Meri Ann’d laid on the table.

Dillon, on the other hand, met her straight on. “There’s never a good time for bad news. I got some for you, Fehr. The results are back on the sound spectrograph we ran on your mom’s message. They tell me, the acoustical features are a probable match. It is your mom’s voice.”

“It’s her?” Meri Ann held her breath. Her hand flew to her throat. She had hoped beyond hope and hidden it away. Even now, she checked her excitement, the faint trembling of her mouth wanting to curl into an incredulous smile. “My mother? No, it can’t be.”

Mendiola’s deep chin dropped a good quarter inch. He mumbled, “No shit?”

“Let me finish,” Dillon said. “Yes, it’s Joanna Dunlap’s voice but it’s been spliced into bits and pieces. Some amateur pieced it together and recorded the message. I’m sorry, Fehr. Your mother wouldn’t have done that to her own message, and she certainly wouldn’t have done that to you.”

Meri Ann fought back the opposite swing of emotion, a spiral to despair. She grasped the arms of her chair and struggled to concentrate. The lieutenant asked her something about Florida.

“What?” she said. “Oh, the message on my machine. Haven’t heard back yet.” Her head felt on fire but she found strength at last in hatred. “I want this lunatic stopped.”

“We want him too.” Dillon lifted her chin, her focus on Fehr.

Chapter Thirty
 

T
he door to the Criminal Justice Building swung closed behind Meri Ann. A rush of cold wind struck her face, made colder by the tears streaming down her cheeks. She pulled up her jacket’s hood and struggled for control. She didn’t want Mendiola to see her cry, so she kept a step behind him as they headed for their vehicles in the near-empty parking lot.

How could he understand what she felt when she didn’t herself? Not one of the case’s horrors had struck her as hard as the news about her mom’s message on the tape. Stupid, yes, when she’d known better than to hope.

Her spirits hovered at ground level and she longed to go back to Becky’s and lock herself upstairs with a couple of blueberry muffins and a half-gallon of milk. But it wouldn’t work. With Renee there, she’d feel obligated to make conversation.

She dried her eyes on the cuff of her sweater and hurried to catch up. She bolstered her voice. “I’m hungry and I don’t want to eat alone.”

She kept her face in the shadows, but his fell under a high cone of light, exposing his curious expression. “Is that an invitation?” he asked.

“Yes, it is.”

He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “I know a place. The food’s so-so, but it’s got a great view and it’s quiet.”

What more could she ask? “I’ll follow you.”

She stayed close, driving up through the foothills to the Highlands, an older subdivision in the northeast end. He pulled into the driveway of a residence, a cedar shake ranch house perched on the hillside—no restaurant in sight.

She exited her car, irritated to think he’d brought her to his house. This had to be another one of his unexpected stops.

She practically growled, “What’s this?”

“Mendiola’s Bar and Grill.” He offered a sheepish grin. He seemed to have one for every occasion.

Regardless of his motives, and she didn’t think for a moment he was about to hit on her, she would have preferred the neutral setting of a café or restaurant with an ambiance of lowered lights and the hum of voices as a distraction.

“Look, I didn’t lie. It’s quiet, got one helluva view and, whether or not we eat here, I’ve got to feed my cats. If you’re allergic or don’t like furry critters, I suppose we could go straight to a restaurant and let them wait for their dinner. Up to you.”

She felt like a jerk. “What, let the poor cats starve? I may be cranky most of the time but I’m not heartless. Feed them, and then we’ll find a restaurant, if you don’t mind.”

“It’s a deal. It won’t take long so you’d might as well come in.” Mendiola pushed a button on his key ring and his garage door rose.

She moved in his direction. “What kind of cats?”

“The skinny, homeless kind that just show up.”

She warmed to him, slightly and stepped inside. The spacious, updated kitchen with pale maple cabinets and designer hardware surprised her. The faint odor of whiskey did not.

She ran her finger along a granite counter. “Nice. And I like the way the kitchen opens into the great room.”

“Yeah, well, my ex-fiancée’s an interior desecrater. She kept the ring and I got all this at cost.”

“What a deal,” she said. “My ex is a charter captain. All I ended up with was a freezer full of grouper.”

He opened the door to a brushed-aluminum refrigerator and took out a can of Friskies. The noise enticed two kitties, their tails quivering, their meows demanding—until they saw her. The big one, a robust tabby, skittered off. The smaller, black one stood her ground, apparently food more important than fear.

Meri Ann set her backpack on the counter, then knelt down and held out the back of her hand to the petite, younger one who appeared about ten pounds leaner than Aunt Pauline’s Cookie and yet still very plump. “You’re not so skinny now.” Her tone took on the soft cooing reserved for babies and small animals.

The kitty responded with a cautious sniff.

“That’s Stella. Her brother’s the coward, Geronimo.”

Mendiola picked up two dirty paper plates from the floor and tossed them into a trash can. He replaced them with clean plates and dished out a healthy portion of wet food on each. He replenished their bowls of dry food.

“You’ve got it down to a science.”

He rinsed off his hands and wiped them on his pants. “Have to when you keep crazy hours.”

“Tell me about it. I used to have a German shepherd. He behaved like an incorrigible three-year-old.”

“What happened to him?”

“He got old and died. It broke my heart.”

“How long has it been?”

“Two years.” She recalled her grief when she’d lost Fritz, “I still miss him.”

“Rotten buggers.” Mendiola reached down and petted Stella. “Can I get you a beer or something to drink?”

She shifted from one foot to the other, considering whether or not to accept. If she did he might take his time getting ready and she needed food in her stomach ten minutes ago. “I’m fine, really.”

He shrugged and opened the refrigerator again.

She glimpsed enough beer for a party, an array of the usual condiments, and a carton of eggs inside. The only food, other than a box of Wheat Thins, was a package of steaks, slightly dark around the edges. Maybe his idea of dinner but not hers.

He reached in and removed a bottle of Ice House and twisted off the cap.

She felt a sharp hunger pang and regretted her earlier refusal. “Hold it.” She edged in beside him and retrieved the crackers. “Mind if I have some of these?”

“No, ma’am. Are you sure about the beer, or maybe something stronger?” He offered her the open one in his hand and took another for himself.

Tired, hungry, thirsty wimp that she was, she gratefully took the beer. “Thanks.”

“I’m fresh out of clean glasses.” He nodded in the direction of the sink, making his point.

She took a short sip and then a long one. Her gaze drifted into his great room, a narrow rectangle two steps below the kitchen. Unlike the grand kitchen, this room resembled a garage sale in progress. One new leather sofa and club chair stood out from the rest, showpieces with the tags still attached.

“Beautiful leather set,” she said.

“The sofa works, but the club chair is torture. I use it for a foot stool.” He chuckled. “I didn’t pick it out and I can’t take it back. My decorator moved out of state in the middle of the job. I call it
decoratus
interruptus
.”

Meri Ann smiled and joined him at the window. The glass panorama stretched the length of room. “What a view.”

“Some nights all I do is sit here in the dark and watch it. I do some of my best thinking here.” He switched on a table lamp that illuminated a horizontal print on the wall. The colors were stark gray, black, and white, the artist obvious.

“Picasso,” she said.

Mendiola nodded. “Guernica.” His eyes fixed on the print. “His rendition of the Fascist attack on the small Basque town—the one the German’s used for bombing practice.”

She nodded, studying the print.

“Hey, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

“May I use your phone?”

He tossed her a portable and entered what must be his bedroom.

She settled on the cool leather sofa and dialed Becky.

“Hel-loo,” she answered.

“I’m just checking in,” Meri Ann said and told her where she was.

“So what are you going to do, hang out at Mendiola’s?” Disappointment riddled her voice.

“It’s been a tough day,” Meri Ann said. “I’ve had bad news on the message on your answering machine. It’s mom’s voice, but not really. I’ll explain later. And we’ve got a new suspect.”

“Graber, isn’t it?”

“Don’t even say his name. Whatever you do, don’t mention any of this to Renee. Please.” Meri Ann went on, “If you get any suspicious calls, or see anyone hanging around outside, you’ve got Mendiola’s home phone and pager. Call him or 911.”

“Jeeze, I wasn’t born last week. The lights are on outside, and everything’s quiet. Just hurry back. I mean it, Meri Ann.”

“I’ll be home by ten-thirty or eleven at the latest. I promise.” She said goodbye and clicked off the phone.

She carried her beer to the picture window. The city sparkled below, a mix of jeweled lights, dark patches and plenty of places to hide. Graber was down there somewhere—a wily mountain man without a trace of his innocent youth. What had happened to the remorseful boy with a smear of first blood on his face? Despite the photo’s age, his troubled expression had not faded. She had read his pain as clearly as if it were written in text.

Meri Ann ran the cold rim of the bottle across her lips and wondered when he’d changed. When killing had become easy.

Chapter Thirty-one
 

T
he bedroom door opened and Meri Ann turned her attention from Boise’s sky-line to Mendiola. He had changed to a long-sleeved polo shirt. The pale blue knit offered a striking contrast against his ruddy complexion. The snug shirt accentuated his broad shoulders.

“I promise you won’t freeze if you take off your coat,” he said.

She glanced at the hand-stitched lapels of her borrowed coat. “I’d forgotten I had it on.” She slipped it off and draped it over the back of the sofa. Stella appeared out of nowhere, hopped onto the soft wool, turned in a circle and plopped down.

Mendiola clapped his hands. “Git!”

Stella reluctantly got down and curled onto a sofa cushion. Meri Ann stroked the black kitty’s head, felt the feline vibration. “I love when they purr. It usually relaxes me but not tonight. The television appearance worries me. I mean, I want to do it and at the same time I don’t.”

“You heard me in Dillon’s office. I’d think twice before baiting this mental case. Hell, I’d think twice about being in the same state with him.”

He opened a knotty-pine cupboard at the far end of the great room. He unlocked it and removed a stainless steel revolver with a six-inch barrel. After securing the cupboard, he brought it to her. “You need some protection. It was my dad’s Smith & Wesson, a heavier version of the K-38. Sorry I don’t have anything lighter.”