Find Me (53 page)

“I was only fourteen years old,” said Mallory. “The Markowitzes thought I was at computer camp for those three days. It was a school award for good grades.”

Charles recalled Louis’s rendition:
“Helen was so happy when she signed the school’s permission slip. Finally, Kathy wanted a normal childhood experience. I was less trusting. I put the kid on the bus and stayed until it pulled out of the schoolyard.”

Mallory’s side of the story filled in a few gaps that Louis had not mentioned, or never knew: In her after-school hours, she had used a police department computer and traced Peyton Hale to a remote town in northern California. She had used the same computer to purchase her airplane tickets, charging them to the NYPD. However, arranging for a limousine to meet her upon arrival had proven too problematic. And so the child had hitchhiked north from the San Francisco airport. Young Kathy had slept on the beach that first night, not expecting to meet her father there, for his home was miles from town. The next morning, she had been surprised to see him coming toward her. “I knew who he was the minute I saw him. His eyes-
my
eyes.” He was so close to her, almost within touching distance. In passing, he had turned to her with a curt nod, a greeting to a stranger, and then he had passed her by. “He didn’t know me.”

“That’s
it
? You never spoke to him? You just walked away?”

“What was the point? He didn’t
know
me.” She splayed her hands to ask why she must repeat herself. And now she laid it all out for him-again, though it annoyed her to do it. “I look just like my mother. I have
her
face,
his
green eyes, and he had no idea who I was. He just forgot about her… and me.”

“He thought you were both dead.”

Evidently this was not an acceptable excuse in Mallory’s ruthless accounting of what was owed to her. “But
I
didn’t know that,” she said, as if this might point out a defect in Charles’s logic. When she spoke again, her tone of voice warned him not to side with Peyton Hale. “It was like my mother and I never existed.”

More accurately, in Charles’s opinion, it was like her father had punched her in the gut-and she would have had no defenses at that young age- only pain. And so Charles thought to change the subject before she could shut down again and lock him out with another prolonged silence. “Did you talk to Louis about this-when you got back home?”

“He didn’t wait that long. He knew I was missing when he called the computer camp the next day-just to see if I was playing nicely with the other kids-that was his story. Then the old man tracked me down to the San Francisco airport. He was waiting at the gate when I showed up with my return ticket. We flew home together.”

“I suppose he was very upset.” In Louis’s version, the man had been badly frightened in every passing minute until he had found his lost child.

“No. The old man just asked if I was okay. He never mentioned it again, and he didn’t rat me out to Helen. He said Helen liked the computer-camp story, so we’d let her go on believing in that one. After a while it was like somebody else took that trip to California, not me. And I didn’t c are about my father anymore.”

Charles very much doubted that, but knew better than to accuse her of human frailty. At least, Mallory had found the best part of her father, the young man who would always be in love with Cassandra, the Peyton Hale she had rediscovered on Route 66.

And what now-what next?

She had no plan beyond this moment. She could not see one day into the future, and this worried Charles. Those who could not see a day ahead might not have another day to live.

He picked up the canvas bag of maps and pulled out the one for California. As he plotted a therapeutic drive up the coast, she was staring at him. No-she was staring at the map with its arcs, circles and little crosses.

“Why would Riker give you a bag full of evidence?”

“Personal effects,” said Charles, correcting her. Oh, that was a mistake. She never took criticism well. And now his attention was diverted to other items at the bottom of the bag, things he had overlooked before. He pulled out a pair of dark glasses, distinctive for their great expense and style- Mallory’s sunglasses? Yes, for next he found her gold pen, a gift he had given her years ago. He stared at these items for the longest time. “Some of your things,” he said, holding them out to her. “They got mixed up with Horace’s effects.”

She shook her head. No, he was mistaken about that, though these items most certainly belonged to her. “The killer stole them. They belong with the rest of the evidence.”

And now, as Mallory would say, they had a game.

Charles carried their bags
into the Santa Barbara Hotel, prime beachfront property and room service; his world was complete. All the people in the lobby were dressed to the nines, and, though blue jeans and denim shirts were acceptable attire among wealthy travelers, he made the error of laying the car keys on the reception desk. The Volkswagen emblem branded him as scurvy middle class in the eyes of the hotel clerk. The young woman said nothing in response to his request for two of her best rooms. Instead, she wrote down a price, and he fancied that her frosty little nose actually tilted up as she pushed the slip of paper across the desk. She was no doubt certain that this would send him on his way to some lesser establishment and a room without a view.

But it was Mallory who snatched up the paper, read the price and found it not nearly exorbitant enough, saying, “You must have better rooms than these.” Her hand was on one hip, the denim jacket incidentally drawn back, the gun exposed, the clerk surprised, and now it seemed that deluxe suites were available.

When they stood alone
on the balcony overlooking the sea, Charles took this romantic moment to say, “I know it wasn’t Horace Kayhill.” Was she even listening to him? No. She was inspecting the label on a complimentary wine bottle. He tried a different tact. “I wonder why the killer left your sunglasses and pen with Horace’s body.”

Mallory took her own time pouring the wine. She sipped from a glass and seemed to be considering the taste. “So Riker never told you who the killer was. That’s interesting.” She scrutinized his face, looking there for signs of lies.

This test-this torture was proof enough that she was back in form. This was a cause for celebration, and he wanted to throttle her. “Who was he?” If she did not tell him now, his head might explode.

“You met him, Charles.” She sipped her wine
slowly.
“I think you even liked him.”

“So he
was
with the caravan.”

She nodded. “He was the Pattern Man.”

All right. That was interesting, though it could not possibly be true. It would be a grave error to question her logic. She hated that-and he could do miles better. He poured himself a glass of wine and courted a more hostile response, saying, “You’re wrong. The Pattern Man-Mr. Kayhill died in
New Mexico.
His bones were picked clean by wild animals.” Failing to get a rise out of her, he added, “Horace was
quite
dead.” He slugged back the wine in one swallow and said, “
Extremely
dead.”

Mallory’s voice had no inflection when she volleyed. “That’s right, but you can’t tell the time of death from skeletal remains. Horace Kayhill died before you met the Pattern Man back in
Missouri.
”

Well, good solution-cleaving her prime suspect in two. So simple. He poured another glass of wine. “It’s a bit of a stretch,” he said, somewhat charitably. “That little man-”

“They always turn out to be little men.”

She seemed to take no offense that he still doubted her. Or was she setting him up for a pratfall? It was so hard to tell with her-just like old times.

“Only the maps belonged to the Pattern Man,” she said. “He was driving Kayhill’s mobile home when he wasn’t stealing cars. But then he had to get rid of it. Now that was Riker’s doing when he organized a search for Kayhill. The Pattern Man would’ve picked that up on his police scanner. He thought Riker was on to him. Panic time. He couldn’t risk a photograph of the real Kayhill showing up on the evening news. The body-what was left of it-had to be found. So he ditched the mobile home at the crime scene-a beacon for the searchers. Good plan. The feds had no interest in Horace Kayhill, and the local police never met the Pattern Man.” She retrieved the canvas tote bag from a chair by the door. “When Riker saw this, I know it only took him six seconds to figure it out. But he gave the evidence to you. Why?”

Charles now regarded the bag as a dangerous thing, and he shook his head in denial. Fortunately, in Mallory’s e yes, this passed for confusion instead of a challenge. He could never tell her that her partner’s only suspect had been Peyton Hale-that Riker believed she had killed her own father. Lies were not his forte, and so he countered with the truth. “I’m not sure that he ever looked that closely at the bag when-”

“Riker’s no screwup,” said Mallory, insistent. “He
saw
the evidence. Hard evidence.” She pulled two maps from the bag. “But he could’ve worked it out if all he had were these. While I was in the hospital, the state police found the graves on the Seligman loop.” She spread the Arizona map on the bed.

Had Riker done more than glance at the folded maps? Doubtful.

“Look,” said Mallory. “See the little crosses on that segment?”

“Yes… because the children were buried on the old trucker’s route.”

“Right. Now the Pattern Man claimed to be a Route 66 buff. But look at this.” She unfolded the map for New Mexico and handed it to him. “All the hardcore fanatics take the road north to Santa Fe.”

Charles stared at the Santa Fe loop-no graves. But this was not evidence of an alias, not proof enough to split one man in two. “Kayhill could’ve worked it out. He was one of Dr. Magritte’s patients.”

“No, Magritte’s patient was the Pattern Man. That was his Internet name. Kayhill was just some poor tourist he met up with on the road.”

Mallory upended the canvas tote bag, spilling the remaining contents on the bedspread in a pile of maps, credit-card receipts and sundry items. She picked up a driver’s license and placed it in his hand. “That’s what the real Kayhill looked like.”

Charles stared at the license photo. It was a face he had never seen before. It resembled the man he had known as Horace Kayhill only in the broadest sense of hair color, height and weight. “Well, license photos are always bad. The killer probably showed this to lots of people, agents, troopers, and no one noticed that it wasn’t him.”

“But you noticed right away,” she said, as if she had caught him in a lie. “I promise you, Riker would never miss a thing like that.”

Oh, but he had. Riker had only glanced inside the trooper’s plastic sack, just a quick look to see a familiar canvas bag and the markings on a wadded map. The detective’s own theory of Mallory’s father as a serial murderer was proof that the man had indeed overlooked this driver’s license.

“Think carefully, Charles. You said you were there when the cops gave it to Riker. Did you see him sign a receipt? Any paperwork at all?”

Charles shook his head, hardly paying attention.

“Good,” she said. “Then it never happened. Are we clear on that?”

He was staring at the damning canvas bag. So much had happened on the day when Riker had received it, but Charles could see no way that his friend would ever recover from this-oversight.

Then Mallory showed him the way.

“We don’t have to turn it over to Kronewald,” she said. Anticipating him, she added, “So the freak is never identified-so what? It’s better this way.” She snatched the license from his hand and then gathered up the maps and bits of paper on the bed. “The reporters probably have film of the fake Kayhill. They’d s plash his face all over the tube.” She jammed the contents back into the bag. “They’d turn up leads and backtrack his life all the way to Illinois. Then there’d be the books and movies-TV specials- all for a child killer.” She seemed indignant over these events that had not happened yet. “And the public-they just
love
their killers. They wouldn’t be able to get enough of this one. And all those murdered kids. Can you see the media chewing on their bones?” She dropped the tote bag into a metal wastebasket. “You think that’s why Riker ditched the evidence?”

Not waiting for an answer, she carried the wastebasket out to the balcony. “It fits. I’ve never heard Riker use a child killer’s name. He always calls them cockroaches.” She turned to the neighboring balcony, leaning over the rail for a better look at the windows of the next room.

Checking for eavesdroppers-witnesses?

She looked down at the contents of the wastebasket. “If the chain of possession ever led back to Riker, he’d lose his badge. But he couldn’t destroy evidence-he just couldn’t go that far.” She came back inside and walked up to Charles. “So he gave it to you. But you’re not the type to collect souvenirs from a murder.”

What now? Was she accusing him of something?

“I told you,” he said, “Riker thought the California map might be useful.”

“He knew you’d throw away the rest of it.”

What rubbish. However, in a twisted way, he looked upon this rationale of hers as a sign of healing; Mallory was more herself, for only a truly paranoid personality could come up with a contrivance as tortured and far-flung as this one.

No-that was unfair.

Her bedrock for this cracked idea was her absolute faith in her partner. She would never come up with any scenario where that man could make an error as careless and costly as this one. She must believe the bag had been given to Riker after the case was closed. Or did she?

“What if the New Mexico police come looking for their evidence?”