The Laura Cardinal Novels (21 page)

Woman’s intuition?
Jesus
. She tried to figure out what he wanted, but couldn’t read him so she picked one. “I have a real gut feeling about this, sir. I think Jay does, too.”

He didn’t answer right away, but seemed to be weighing her answer—an answer she had tossed on a fifty-fifty throw. At last he said, “ Go ahead.”

He was setting up the next putt when she left.

Next she called Victor, who had been in Bisbee all day, working the case from there.

“Don’t you think you’re jumping the gun?” he asked.

“I think it’s the guy. Or he can lead me to the guy.”

“Are you sure these killings are connected?”

“The similarities are pretty striking.” Feeling defensive.

“There’s a lot that doesn’t add up.” He enumerated the same dissimilarities that had bothered her. “Shit, a twelve-year-old and a fourteen-year-old. That’s a big difference on the Tanner chart. You know how choosy these guys can be.”

Thought about telling him her theory, but realizing that arguing would get her nowhere.

“There’s something I’d like you to do personally. Check with Jessica’s friends again. I never did get a straight answer from Buddy about whether or not she used the computer at school. If she didn’t use it at school, find out if she used one at the public library.”

“Anything else?” His voice was cool.

“That should do it.”

After he hung up, she stared off into space. She realized she was skating on a very thin edge. Going over Jerry Grimes’s head, working with Jay Ramsey, her less than enthusiastic investigation of Lehman. Working just as hard, putting in the hours, but more and more certain that with Lehman, they were heading down the wrong road.

Laura rented a car in Panama City and drove in the direction of the Strand Model and Talent Agency in Panama City Beach.

Panama City gave Laura the impression of a beach town being swallowed whole by Wal-Mart and shopping malls—a battle of old versus new. Fast food chains vying with mom-and-pop burger stands, bait shops and boat rentals in the shadow of superstores. Colored pennants and tacky signs marked mobile home sales and car dealerships adjacent to tracts of land marked for sale as “unimproved” property.

As if you could improve on quiet two-lane roads disappearing into live oak and stands of southern pine.

The Strand Model and Talent Agency was located three blocks from the beach. Blue with gray trim, the modest saltbox was bordered by a row of immature banana trees and sat in one corner of a parking lot roped off by a giant, sand-encrusted hawser stretching from piling to piling. The plastic sign out front had stick-on letters, like many a drive-by church she’d seen on the way out here.

She was impressed by the pelican statue on one of the pilings—until it flew off.

The Strand Talent Agency must have been a doctor’s office at one time. A partition divided the front office from the receptionist’s window, and next to the window was the door to inner offices. Posters of sullen-faced models lined the gray fabric walls. A blond, equally sullen-faced receptionist sat behind the window, concentrating on her nails. She would be pretty if not for her spoiled expression. Laura asked to see the owner of the agency.

“You’ll have to wait your turn,” the girl said, and went back to filing her nails. Ludicrous. Laura was the only one here. She wondered how talent agencies made a living on the Florida panhandle. She glanced at the stack of brochures sitting in the receptionist’s window and saw the rates for runway modeling and deportment classes. Now she understood.

A young man carrying a portfolio emerged from the door to the inner offices, and Laura took the opportunity to duck past him. If she expected a protest from the blonde, it wasn’t forthcoming. She found herself in a hallway, poked her head into the first room. A heavyset woman with jet-black hair and white sideburns was making photocopies. She wore an outfit that could have looked great on the streets of New York.

“I’m looking for the owner of the agency.”

“I’m the owner. Who are you?”

Laura introduced herself. “I need to get in touch with one of your actors." She handed Myrna Gorman the composite of Peter Dorrance. She could have found his address in Public Records in Apalachicola, but had another reason for talking to Myrna Gorman.

Gorman led Laura into another room lined with file cabinets. For a big woman, her movements were swift and economical. “Peter. A great look, but we haven’t been able to do much with him. He’s one of those people who can’t act." She opened a file cabinet and ran Turandot nails over the files, scooped one out. “Here it is. We sent him out on two modeling jobs this year. He lives far enough away that we don’t send him too many places.”

“But he did make it to
CSI: Miami.
”

“They wanted the most beautiful male corpse they could find. Last I looked, corpses don’t have to act.”

“These headshots … Did he use your photographer?”

“We don’t have a photographer on staff. There are two or three we use. I have their names and phone numbers if you want them.”

Laura did.

“What do you know about Peter Dorrance? Other than he can’t act?”

Mrs. Gorman returned to her office chair and drummed her fingernails on the desk blotter. “He’s one of those with stars in their eyes. I know he’s planning to move to LA.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Months.” She looked inward. “April? I had an audition for him in Tallahassee—a national commercial. He didn’t get it. What brings you here, all the way from Arizona? Did he do something illegal?”

“I can’t discuss that.”

“Well, I think you should tell me what he did. I have a reputation in this town, and I don’t want to be associated with something like that.”

“You sound like you think he’s capable of bad things.”

Myrna Gorman’s stare hardened. “I know he knocked up one of my models. But I guess that isn’t a crime.”

“How old was your model?”

“Alissa? Twenty-two.”

“Are they an item?”

She shrugged. “Who knows? It isn’t very often we get a production company coming through here to film. I landed that girl a good role. The day before filming was due to start, she had a miscarriage and ended up in the hospital. They had to recast, and City Confidential got the commission. You could say that Peter Dorrance has cost me more than he ever made me.”

Laura took Highway 98 going east past Tyndall Air Force Base, past miles of slash pines, then into a pretty town called Mexico Beach. Late in the afternoon, the sky, though clear, had a metallic quality—grayish green down at the horizon. The beach was on the right side of the road. An incoming wave caught the sun, the shape and color of a 7-Up bottle lying on its side, and crashed down into foam. Laura wished she could pull over, buy a bathing suit somewhere, and go for a swim.

She drove through Apalachicola just after six p.m. According to her map, Apalachicola was once a major port city in the south. The place struck her as gracious–neatly gridded streets, live oaks draped with Spanish moss, a fisherman walking down a street spattered by shadow. Following her map, she drove over the Gorrie St. Bridge and across Apalachicola Bay to Eastpoint.

Peter Dorrance lived at the Palmetto Cove apartment complex in Eastpoint, the jump-off point for St. George Island. Two stories, Palmetto Cove Apartments reminded Laura of a Travelodge. She followed the stairs up to a sway-backed concrete walkway and found his room overlooking the parking lot. When she knocked, the orange door rattled in the frame. Cheap. He was probably at work.

On to Bennies at the Beach, where Dorrance worked as a waiter. Laura backtracked to the St. George Island Causeway and drove across to the island. The bay shimmered in the lowering sun, brimming with oyster boats and sparklets of late light. The first thing she saw on the island was a water tower. It looked like a plastic golf tee.

Bennie’s at the Beach was just down E. Gulf Beach going east. Easy to spot: Three stories of weathered wood topped by a thatched roof, colorful surfboards lining the walls. She counted at least thirty cars parked along the road.

Laura was almost to the restaurant when she spotted a house on the right that looked familiar. She pulled over to the side of the road and looked across a vacant lot of sand and sea oats to the pastel-colored houses facing out onto the Gulf.

They appeared to be relatively new. From what she’d seen in the renters and buyers guide she’d picked up at the airport, prices for homes on the Florida panhandle were going up exponentially. Beachfront property was at a premium. Laura guessed these were vacation rentals. The house nearest to her looked like the Gull Cottage from the photograph.

She got out of the car and walked up the road for a closer look. Pale yellow siding, white trim, a red metal roof, widow’s walk. She recognized the steps to one side, the palmetto, and the garage under the house.

What clinched it was the sports car: a blue BMW Z4.

The neighbor must be some nice guy to let an out-of-work actor pose with his car.

Or maybe Peter had waited for the owner to leave, and then had his photo session. Laura glanced at Bennies at the Beach, approximately fifty yards up the road. Every day Peter Dorrance came to work, he would have driven by this house.

She revised her notion that the house was a vacation rental; the publicity photos were at least five months old, yet the Z4 was still here. She debated talking to the owner, but decided that she would talk to Dorrance first.

The sky was turning sherbet colors—flamingo pink, orange, lemon—as she drove the rest of the way to Bennies.

Bennies was a Parrothead paradise. Fish nets hanging from plank walls, sawdust on the floor, middle-aged men in loud Hawaiian shirts. The noisy babble rose to the rafters. A sign above the bar: Oysters - Half Dozen for a Dollar. Exotic-sounding drink specials with names like “Banshee Breeze” written in colored chalk on a blackboard.

A waitress in a white dress shirt and black trousers whipped by, holding a huge tray overflowing with colorful food, making Laura hungry. She pressed her way through the crowd to the bar and yelled over the music until the bartender understood. He pointed to a tall young man with shoulder-length black hair.

Laura waited for Dorrance to finish taking his order and stood in his path. He smiled absently at her.

“Mr. Dorrance?” she asked.

“Yes. Hi. I’ll be right with you.” He expertly side-stepped her and headed for the kitchen. Laura couldn’t follow him—the way he threaded through the crowd could have made him a star on the football field.

She waited at the kitchen entrance. “Mr. Dorrance. I need to talk to you." She held up her shield.

“Department of Public Safety? What’s that?”

She found herself shouting. “An Arizona law enforcement agency.” She watched him carefully, but saw only confusion. “Is there a place we can talk?”

He looked around doubtfully. Handsome, almost pretty. His hair was thick and slightly frizzy from the humidity. Startled blue eyes, heavy brows, cleft chin, full lips. “A twelve-top just sat down. Can you wait until I get a moment?”

She waited by the bar, watching him in action, tried to picture him picking up a young girl, keeping her with him, dressing her up.

Peter Dorrance was a waiter who lived in a crappy apartment because he couldn’t afford to live on the island where he worked. Even used motor homes cost in the tens of thousands of dollars, especially the long one Mrs. Bonney had described. Peter Dorrance didn’t seem like the kind of guy who could afford that.

Laura stepped up to the bar and caught the bartender’s eye. He made it over eventually and slapped a cocktail napkin down on the bar. “What’ll it be?”

“I’d like to speak to the manager.” She showed him her shield.

A few minutes later, a middle-aged man in a knit shirt and khakis appeared at her elbow. He was solid looking, with dark hair and a face hewn by the wind and sun. “I’m Buddy Gill,” he said. “You were asking for me?”

“Could we go to your office?”

He assessed her, then turned on his heel. “Come on,” he said over his shoulder. He led her to a small room dominated by a Maritime clock of polished brass and teak, a swordfish mounted on the wall, and photos of a woman and four blond boys. He sat down behind his desk in the only chair. He swiveled back and forth, staring at her.

“Eric said you’re a cop?”

“I’m a detective with DPS, the Arizona state agency. I need to know if Peter Dorrance worked here last week.”

He considered her for a moment, then reached into a side drawer of his desk and dropped a schedule on the table for her to see.

“According to this, he was scheduled for four days?”

“That’s right. Tuesday through Friday.”

“What about the week before?”

He produced that schedule, too. Laura saw immediately that Dorrance had worked both Friday and Saturday nights. Friday was the day Jessica was kidnapped and killed.

“This is penciled in. He actually worked these days?”

“I remember him being here.”

She stifled her disappointment. Someone must have used Dorrance’s picture. All this way, and anyone could have picked his picture up off the Internet.

“What’s this about?”

“He’s an investigative lead—a possible witness to a crime committed in Arizona.”

“How could he witness a crime there if he was here?”

“He couldn’t,” she said. She pushed open the door and walked back out into the crowd.

Back in the bar, Laura saw Peter Dorrance was coming her way, a big friendly grin on his face. When he got close he dipped his head near her ear, so close she took a step back and jogged someone’s drink.

“I’m on break,” he said. “Let’s go outside so we don’t have to yell.”

He nudged her through the crowd.

Outside, they stood on the deck overlooking the ocean. The sun had turned into a blood orange, sinking into a lavender sea. A hot wind tugged at Dorrance’s pirate hair, and for a moment Laura felt she was in the middle of a Hallmark card. Especially the way he was looking at her, a cross between “aren’t I irresistible?” and “you’re not bad yourself.”