The Laura Cardinal Novels (98 page)

“Then why don't you listen to yourself?” He scooted his chair closer to her, right in her face. “Remember that day you called me?”

“No.”

“The day you left a message for me.” He pulled out a While You Were Out slip and put it on the table. “You said you found women's things when you were moving his stuff out of storage. You were mad, remember? But more than that, you were scared.”

“I was bullshitting you. Can't you take a joke?”

She had hunched even further into her seat. Like a turtle, her head poking up. From tough-looking chick with alien sunglasses to a frightened turtle. Her tough exterior was as thin as an eggshell. Laura could almost smell the fear on her. Fear mixed with anguish. And desperation.

“You got yourself in too deep, didn't you? Marrying this guy you hardly knew. He was different when he was in prison, wasn't he?”

She shook her head.

“He was different then. Perfect husband material. It was hard raising your little girl by yourself. And here you found this great guy, and then he's eyeing your own daughter. Not only that, but it's clear he's been seeing other women.”

She was shaking her head. “You are so full of shit.”

“He just leaves at the drop of a hat. I tell you what, that would piss
me
off.”

She didn't reply.

“Then you find all that stuff. You know what it is, don't you? The underwear, the earrings? You know why he kept those things, don't you?”

She stood up. “I've got to go.”

“I just hope you aren't next,” Waddell said as she walked away.

As she disappeared around the building, Waddell removed his sunglasses and sighed. “Sorry you didn't get a chance to talk to her.”

Laura ignored his apology. “He has trophies?”

“She only called that once, but I think she knows. They're trophies he kept in a storage facility for four years. He made a point of telling her to sell off or get rid of everything except what was in this one suitcase. So she opens it up, and she sees all these articles that belong to women or girls. I'd give anything to get my hands on that suitcase.”

“Does she still have it?”

He shrugged. “My guess is he took it back from her the minute he got out of prison. Probably stashed it somewhere. I just keep pushing with her. She's got the lid down pretty tight, but I keep prying, a little bit at a time.”

“If it's gone, though . . . ”

Waddell said, “Then there's nothing we can do. We don't have enough for a search warrant. He's off parole, and as far as the law is concerned, he's paid his debt to society, blah blah blah. I think Sandy knows a lot more than she's telling. Either that or she's rationalizing. Hard to tell with her.”

Waddell had given Laura what he had on the little girl who was kidnapped from her own bedroom. She sat at her desk, staring at Elaine Feustel's pretty, open face.

Ten years old.

There was no doubt in Laura's mind that Elaine Feustel was dead.

She wondered if Sandy Heywood had come to the same conclusion, how she lived with it if she had. Laura was also willing to bet that Sandy knew what the articles of clothing and jewelry in Heywood's suitcase meant. But as long as it wasn't spelled out for her, she could choose to ignore it.

Ah, love. She'd been blinded by it herself a few times. She'd married a guy who wanted her to support him, but in light of Sandy Heywood's choices, that didn't seem to be such a big deal.

As she got up to make photocopies of Waddell's report, Laura bumped her elbow on the chair rest, the shock going up her arm.

She still had the sling. This morning before work she'd gone to her regular doctor and he'd told her to keep the sling on for another few days. He'd prescribed alternating ice and heat treatments and told her it was possible she could sustain long-term damage from the blow to her radial nerve. Great.

When she returned to her desk, Jaime was waiting for her.

“What's new?” she asked him.

“While you were frolicking at the beach and shopping on Rodeo Drive, I was busy interviewing Sherri D'Agnostino.”

Jaime set his mini-recorder on Laura's desk and played the interview. His voice sounded different on the tape recorder, his accent pronounced. Laura had no idea why this was. Maybe he did it on purpose. Or maybe seeing him in person, she got the whole package. In person, he sounded Anglo. In fact, sometimes he sounded like New Jersey.

Jaime went through the usual introduction, then asked Sherri D'Agnostino—her name was Sherri Giles now—for some background.

She’d been seventeen at the time of the tragedy.

She’d worked at the camp two years running.

She’d been in charge of six girls in Bunk 4, including Jenny Carmichael.

She felt horrible about Jenny's abduction, said, “I blame myself.”

Jaime had her describe the day's outing. They had left at eight thirty in the morning, and the girls had spent time exploring and enjoying the lake. The picnic had been around noon. A thunderstorm had came up, so they’d piled the girls in the vans and driven back up to Camp Aratauk. Sherri Giles was sure that Jenny had been on her van.

JAIME: Was there a reason you didn't wait the storm out?

SHERRI: It was pouring. There was thunder and lightning—really close. We didn't want to stay out under the ramada in a thunderstorm, so we went back.

JAIME: Was Jenny at the cookout?

SHERRI: Yes. I'm sure she was there.

JAIME: You saw her there? At the cookout?

SHERRI: I'm sure I did. It's hard to remember after all this time.

Laura said to Jaime, “Could you play that for me again?”

“Sure.” He rewound a little, punched STOP, and then PLAY.

I'm sure I did. It's hard to remember after all this time.

Laura heard it in Sherri's voice: avoidance, wiggle room. Sherri’s words “I'm sure” qualified “I did.” Sherri also said that it was hard to remember. Laura thought that the day Jenny Carmichael disappeared would be the one day Sherri Giles
would
remember. Forever.

A little further on, Sherri Giles admitted to Jaime that she couldn't actually remember having seen Jenny at the lake.

She admitted that she had asked Jenny's best friend, Dawn, where Jenny was. She had been told Jenny was in the bathroom.

Then the rain had come—hard—visibility only a few feet. All the girls had piled in the vans. Sherri D'Agnostino told Jaime she’d taken a head count on one van and then the other. The numbers had seemed to match up.

JAIME: You say they’d “seemed to match up.” What do you mean by that?

SHERRI: There was a lot . . . of chaos. Dawn told me Jenny was in the bathroom and so I told her to, uh, go get her, then I went to the other van. I think that's what happened. I did a head count at the other van, and then I went back to the van Dawn was on.

JAIME: You counted heads?

SHERRI: Yes. I'm pretty sure . . . No—wait. We were in a hurry, visibility was so bad, we wanted to get everybody back to the camp—I counted . . .

There was a pause. Laura heard the tape reel turning, the fuzzy sound of the wheels turning.

SHERRI: I called out their names.

JAIME: You called out their names
and
did a head count?

SHERRI: No. I was wrong—I just called out their names.

JAIME: Did everyone answer?

SHERRI: Yes.

JAIME: How many girls were on the van?

SHERRI: Twelve on one van and eleven on the other.

JAIME: And all of them answered? On both vans?

SHERRI: Everyone said, “Here!" I remember that.

Jaime stopped the tape and looked at Laura. “She didn't check the tags. She didn't even count heads.”

Sherri had mentioned the tags, and they were in Jenny's case file as well. Laura remembered them from her own stint at Camp Aratauk. The tags were like metal pet tags, stamped with numbers. Each camper was assigned a number. The tags were kept on a pegboard in the mess hall, and every time the girls went on an outing, they pinned the tags to their uniform shirts. The counselors were supposed to keep track of them by writing down each number. That didn't happen this time.

Jaime played the rest of the tape. Sherri told him that after they’d returned, all the girls had gone to their bunkhouses to change clothes. Everybody had been soaking wet. But she’d told all of them to hang their tags up on the pegboard.

“Jenny's tag was on the board,” Sherri Giles told him. “She obviously came back with us. We didn't even notice she was gone until dinnertime.”

That seemed to be a discrepancy with what the CEO of Camp Aratauk had told Art Schiller. Laura looked it up.

“She's shading the truth again,” Laura said. “Says right here that it wasn't long after they got back that they realized Jenny was missing.”

“They thought she went off by herself,” Jaime said.

“Yes. They called her the wanderer. Jenny the wanderer.”

Jaime said, “It sounds to me like everybody was covering their own ass. We don't know when she disappeared. At dinnertime? Before the picnic? After the picnic? Christ, did they just leave her behind?”

“She was found not a mile from the camp,” Laura said. “So maybe she never left.”

Dave Toch questioned Sean Grady at the downtown TPD station. In the fluorescent light of the interview room, Grady's face looked pasty. His lawyer's face, if possible, was even pastier; she looked as if she'd gone ten rounds in the ring and lost.

The light turned Grady's forehead into a shelf over two dark hollows for eyes.

“Tell me again how it happened,” Toch said.

The lawyer opened her mouth to say something, but Sean just stared at her. His stare said “butt out.”

“I'm acting against the advice of my lawyer, talking to you guys, but I'm doing this because I'm innocent. This is bogus, and I'm going to prove it.”

“Let's start with the knifing.”

His sigh had the tone of the long-suffering. “How many times and in how many ways do I have to say it? There was no knifing. If she hadn't charged at me, she wouldn't have hurt her hand. It's that simple.” His expression earnest. “I didn't lay a finger on her. She's imagining things. She really needs some help.”

“You said you showed her the knife. Why did you do that?”

The lawyer glanced at her client, but Grady stopped her with a look. He shook his head. “Man, this is such a misunderstanding. I just bought it. I was showing it to everybody who came in. I'm like a kid with a new toy, I've always been that way. She just took it the wrong way.”

Dave Toch laid a copy of a receipt he'd gotten from a Big 5 on the table beside Grady. “Says here you bought that knife last year.”

“That was another knife.”

“Another knife? Exactly the same make, type? Why'd you do that?”

“Why not? It's a free country.”

“I'm just curious is all. Wondering why you'd buy one knife a year ago and another one recently. They're exactly alike.”

“We're getting off the point here.”

“What is the point?”

Laura saw Grady shift slightly so that he had a direct view of the one-way glass she stood behind. He stared right at her. She knew he couldn't see through the window, that he didn't know for sure that she was even here. But his gaze reached out across the space between them through the wall. It made Laura think of someone probing a shell with an escargot fork, looking for the meat. Digging, digging, digging. Persistent and intrusive.

So
sure
of himself.

He leaned back but kept his eyes on the window.

“The point
is
she lied. She freaked out; it was totally inappropriate; and the next thing you know, she's shooting at me. I've got grounds for a lawsuit, and you'd better believe once the charges are dropped, it will be in the works.”

He leaned toward Detective Toch, but kept his eyes on Laura.

“I. Did. Nothing. Wrong.” He landed on each word for emphasis, his eyes never leaving Laura's. She could swear he could see her.

It made her want to step away; it made her want to hide.

He smiled, as if he saw her discomfort.

Gotcha
.

It was late afternoon by the time Laura left TPD. She had a quick dinner at Chuy's, then drove to the Brashear house for her first voice lesson.

The unsettled feeling went with her. Grady's father had come up with his bond, and he was out. Not only did Sean Grady have contempt for her as a law officer, she knew he wanted to do her harm.

Toch told her the CA was going to drop the ag assault charge all together. When Toch protested that Laura was a cop, that it would send a very bad message, Rutan had echoed Sean Grady's own words. “We wouldn't even be talking about this if her hand hadn't gotten in the way.”

So Laura was careful to watch her rearview mirror. She would be careful later tonight, too. She didn't want Grady to know where she lived.

As she pulled up in front of the Brashear house, though, Laura was nervous for another reason. She had not sung in front of anybody for years; she'd only sung along with her CDs at home and in the car.

Her favorite song was “I Can't Make You Love Me,” made famous by Bonnie Raitt. Laura had never had a voice lesson in her life, but she pictured how it would be. Nina Brashear would have her sing the song and then help her sing it better.

That wasn't what happened, though.

“It'll be awhile before you should sing that song,” Nina said, after taking Laura through fifteen minutes of scales. The scales—so many different kinds—were boring and Laura found herself getting impatient.

They worked on “I dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair” instead. Laura liked “I dream of Jeannie,” so it was all right. She had the slightest glimmer that she was completely out of her depth, though. A sudden self-consciousness, a feeling that her voice was unnatural and untameable.

Nina glanced at the clock. “That's enough for today. Always warm up with these exercises. Can you remember them?”

Laura nodded. She didn't ask when she'd finally get to sing “I Can't Make You Love Me”; it seemed as if would be very far away.