The Red Queen Dies (30 page)

They turned, to find that they were being observed by Redfield's sharp-eyed neighbor, who had stepped out of her own back door.

“Hello, ma'am,” McCabe said to the woman, who had gray hair caught up in a knot on top of her head and was wearing an apron over her slacks and pullover sweater. “I'm Detective McCabe, and this is Detective Baxter of the APD. We saw Mr. Redfield's car in the driveway and thought he might be in back and not have heard the doorbell.”

The woman's blue gaze narrowed. “You're that detective that Clarence wrote about in his thread.”

“Yes, ma'am,” McCabe said. “However, we're here to see Mr. Redfield about another matter. Do you know where he is or when he might be back?”

“Can't help you,” Redfield's neighbor said. “I have something on the stove.” She turned back to say, “And unless you have a search warrant, I suggest you stop prowling around private property.”

McCabe smiled at her. “I didn't catch your name, ma'am.”

“Troy. Mrs. Evelyn Troy.”

“Mrs. Troy, we'll stop by later to see Mr. Redfield. I'm sure you'll remember to tell him we were here.”

“Yes, I will,” Mrs. Troy said, and went into her house.

She left the door open, obviously intending to observe their departure.

Baxter was about to start the car, when they saw Clarence Redfield jogging toward them. He was wearing a sleeveless sweatshirt that displayed impressive biceps, but the baggy shorts and the beat-up sneakers did nothing for him. Both look a little sad, McCabe thought.

He was chugging along as if he was going through the motions rather than jogging for maximum effect. He stopped when McCabe and Baxter stepped out of the car.

“Mr. Redfield,” McCabe said. “Glad we caught you. We saw your car in the driveway, but you didn't seem to be around.”

Redfield pulled off the sweatband he was wearing around his head. “As you can see, I went for a jog.”

“Nice day for it,” Baxter said.

“Yes, the heat finally broke. What can I do for you?”

“We don't want to take much of your time,” McCabe said. “But there's someone we're trying to find, and we think you might have known her.”

Redfield's gaze shifted from one of them to the other. Then he smiled. “Come on in. No point standing out here on the sidewalk.”

“Thank you.”

They followed him up the steps. He turned the knob and opened the door.

“It wasn't locked,” he said, giving them another smile. “You could have gone on inside and made yourselves at home until I got back.”

“We try not to do anything that might be misinterpreted later,” McCabe said.

Baxter said, “You ought to be careful about that anyway. Lots of burglaries happen in the daytime when people leave a door or window unlocked.”

Redfield smiled. “I'll keep that tip in mind, Detective Baxter.”

They stepped into a black-and-white-tiled foyer. The foyer provided a view of the living room and the connecting dining room and, beyond that, the edge of a refrigerator out in the kitchen. But it was the terrarium that occupied one corner of the living room that caught McCabe's attention.

“That's impressive,” she said, pointing. “It looks like a piece of furniture.”

“It was once,” Redfield said. “I started with an old entertainment center and added the glass and created the ecosystem inside.”

“What do you have in there?” Baxter asked, moving closer.

“Anole lizards,” Redfield said, following him across the room.

McCabe trailed after the two of them. “That would mean that you don't also have snakes,” she said.

Redfield turned to look at her, raising an eyebrow. “You don't like snakes, Detective McCabe? No, keeping snakes in the same terrarium with lizards generally isn't a good idea. The lizards tend to end up inside the snakes.”

McCabe said, “And that wouldn't work out very well.”

“I used to keep a couple of snakes. But they required more care than lizards.”

Baxter was peering into the terrarium. “One of them just ran up on a limb and he's looking back at me.”

“That's Bill,” Redfield said. “Bill has personality.”

“Bill, the lizard,” McCabe said. “There a lizard named Bill in
Alice in Wonderland.
”

“Is there?” Redfield said. “It's been a while since I read that book.”

McCabe nodded and glanced around the living room. “Nice house. But we don't want to take up too much of your time, Mr. Redfield. We know you're just getting back from your jog.”

“No problem, if you don't mind looking at me sweaty. How about a glass of lemonade? I've got some out in the kitchen.”

“I could go for some,” Baxter said.

“Come on back with me. I always feel more comfortable entertaining people in the kitchen.”

The glance that Baxter shot her as they followed Redfield echoed McCabe's perception that Redfield thought he was in control of the situation.

“By the way, I read your thread about me,” she said, catching up to Redfield as he passed the dining room table. “I have to say that although I don't happen to share your opinion about my capabilities as a detective, I did find your writing style—what's the word I want?”

“
Engaging?
” Redfield said, giving her a sideway's glance.

“No …
engrossing
. That's the word. I couldn't stop reading. I wanted to see how you would end.”

“Hope you weren't disappointed.” He gestured for McCabe to go ahead of him into the kitchen. “It was nothing personal, Detective McCabe. I'm sure you're probably as good as any of the other detectives on the APD. But as a threader, it's my job to be controversial and thought-provoking.”

“To feed your readers red meat, so to speak?”

“Yes, that's what they expect. I'm afraid, because you're at the center of the serial killer investigation, I had to focus on you.” He smiled. “Since you have a gun, I hope no hard feelings.”

“None at all, Mr. Redfield. We each have our job to do. And we do it to the best of our abilities.”

“And hopefully you and your partner”—he glanced at Baxter—“and the task force, which I understand now does exist, will be able to find the killer before another woman loses her life.”

“We're working on it,” Baxter said. He sat down on a stool at the breakfast bar. “Mind putting some ice in my lemonade?”

“And slices of lemon,” Redfield said. “I pride myself on my lemonade. Please have a seat, Detective McCabe.”

“Thank you,” McCabe said.

He rinsed his hands at the sink and reached for a towel. “Now, tell me what can I do for you. I hope you aren't here to ask me again about my sources.”

“No, this is about something else,” McCabe said. “We're looking for someone. A young woman who lived here in Albany with her mother and younger sister about nine years ago, back in 2010.”

She paused, looking at him.

“I'm listening,” he said. “Please, go on.”

“That summer,” McCabe said, “the three women, the mother and the two daughters, left Albany and ended up in Santa Fe. We know that both the mother and the younger daughter died there. We're trying to find the older daughter.”

Redfield had taken a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator. He looked up from filling the glasses he had set on the counter. He looked interested, nothing more. “And how do I fit into this search?”

“You aren't going to believe this. But we think you might once have known her.”

“Really?” Redfield set a glass in front of her.

McCabe took a sip. “This is great lemonade,” she said, and meant it.

“Thank you. But you were saying that you thought I—”

“Might have known the older sister. Her name was Melanie. And when our APD Research Unit was looking for leads to her whereabouts, they checked the Web. And that's what brought us to you.” She took another sip of her lemonade. “Isn't this great lemonade, Mike?”

“Terrific,” Baxter said. “You ought to put a lemonade stand out front, Mr. Redfield. Or bottle the stuff and sell it at farmers' markets.”

“Too much competition, I'm afraid. Everyone's pushing all-natural products these days. But you were saying about the Web search that brought you to me, Detective McCabe.”

“Research found some photos that had been posted on the Web by someone. Probably years ago. They were photos of a hike that started from the community park off Delaware Avenue.” She took a sip from her glass. “The thing is, the photos had a caption.”

“What was it?”

“‘Clarence and Melanie hiking the yellow brick road.'”

Redfield took a sip from his own glass. Then he said, “There must be more than one man named Clarence in the city of Albany.”

“You're right about that,” McCabe said. “But before we started looking for other men named Clarence who might have gone hiking with a young woman named Melanie back in 2010, we thought why not start with the Clarence we knew.”

“Especially given your interest in the case,” Baxter said.

“Are you saying that this young woman you're looking for is somehow linked to the serial murders that you're investigating?”

McCabe shook her head. “We don't know. That's why we want to talk to her.”

“You mentioned her younger sister—”

“Yes. She was named Johnnie Mae. Does that ring a bell? If you can tell us anything about either of these young women—”

“I'm sorry, Detective McCabe. I'm afraid you've got the wrong man.”

McCabe sighed. “Oh, well, it was a long shot, but when we saw the name Clarence…” She took a last sip of her lemonade. “Thank you for your courtesy, Mr. Redfield. And I agree that we should both try to be professional about this.… I mean about how you cover the investigation.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that.”

Baxter said, “We'll go and let you hit the shower.” He drained his glass and stood up.

McCabe stood, as well. Her glance came to rest on the bright red label of the jar on the counter that Redfield was leaning against. “Isn't that one of the chutneys from Pluto's Planet?”

“Pluto's Planet?” Baxter said, his tone sharp.

“The design of the label is distinctive,” McCabe said.

Redfield twisted around and looked down at the jar. He picked it up. “Yes, it is, isn't it? This is the apple brandy chutney. Have you tried it?”

“No,” McCabe said. “I just happened to notice the display by the cash register when we were there talking to Bethany Clark's coworkers. You did know that she worked there?”

“Yes,” Redfield said. “I did.”

Baxter said, “You knew that? Did she ever wait on your table when you dropped by?”

“Not that I recall,” Redfield said. “Of course, I may have seen her there. I tried to remember if I had after she was murdered and I heard on the news that she had worked there.”

“But she didn't come to mind, huh?” Baxter said.

Redfield shrugged. “You know how the staff in restaurants is more or less invisible. Especially in a place like Pluto's Planet, where they're all young and perky.”

“You're right about that,” McCabe said. “Well, we'll go and get out of your way.”

“Let me show you out,” Redfield said.

At the door, McCabe turned. “By the way, are you going to attend the memorial for Mrs. Givens?”

Redfield nodded. “I consider it my duty to be there and report on the state of mind of the community.”

McCabe said, “Then we'll see you later.”

“You won't be able to miss us,” Baxter said.

Redfield smiled. “I'll see you both there.”

In the car, McCabe tightened her seat belt as Baxter shot forward. “We aren't in a hurry,” she said.

“That asshole's lying through his teeth. He's the Clarence we're looking for.”

“I think so, too. But we've got to prove it. And just because he's lying doesn't mean he's our killer.”

“Wanna bet?”

“That jar of chutney on the counter … He invited us to go out to the kitchen.”

“Maybe he forgot it was sitting there.”

“Or he knew that the fact that it was didn't matter. Eating at Pluto's Planet and buying the specialty chutney is something that many law-abiding Capital District residents are guilty of having done. The place is popular. And large enough so that Redfield could have eaten there now and then and never had Bethany Clark as his server.”

“But she'd been working there since the place opened in January. So the odds are that if Redfield went there more than a time or two, he at least saw her.”

“Depending on the shift she was working. And, as his lawyer would say, so what? He saw her. That doesn't mean he killed her.”

“Again, partner, wanna bet?”

“Nope. I want to wait and see. If he's playing games with us, maybe he'll keep pushing it until he goes too far.”

*   *   *

They were on Central Avenue, practically back to the station house, when the dispatcher came on. “McCabe, we got a request that you see Officer Michele Lawrence. She says she might have something you're looking for.”

“Copy, Dispatch. What's Officer Lawrence's present location?”

Dispatch recited the address. It was on one of the side streets off Delaware Avenue.

Baxter beeped the siren and turned against the light. “Wonder what she's got.”

“She was the uniform on duty at the Jessup scene. If we're lucky, it's something useful and related to the case.”

Lawrence's location was a derelict house that should have been condemned, if it already hadn't been. Lawrence herself was standing beside her cruiser. A sergeant was with her. He was holding a little girl with matted hair, shoeless, wearing a ripped and grimy pink dress. She was crying and squirming in his arms.