Web of Smoke (22 page)

“Like?”

“You don’t really care.”

“Sure I do,” she said, surprising herself by meaning it.

He stared at her, as if judging her sincerity. “I’ve been banging heads with the brass every time I turn around. Then last year a suit was investigated by Internal Affairs and I got called to testify against him. Didn’t do him any harm but probably ruined my career.”

“That’s discrimination. Sue the department or something.”

Mike laughed. “I might as well just blow him away and be done with it. He can make my life a worse hell than it is. Twist things around. Play dirty. He can sling as much my way as I can his, and if he doesn’t have enough on me, then he’ll make it up. It’s a dirty business, Kathy. Believe it or not, dealing with the street scum is the easy part.”

He reached over and turned up the radio, effectively tuning out their conversation. Kathy, for once, took the hint and settled back in her seat. At least she felt as if they were doing something. Following a lead, searching out clues. Finding her daughter.

On the radio, Alan Jackson crooned about midnight in Montgomery and whiskey in the air, and Kathy let him soothe her nerves. She’d barely slept since Jessica had been ripped from her life. Now the comforting motion of the car lulled her into a light doze. The song changed to a commercial, followed by the news. A part of her mind registered the fact while another part drifted down the sweet avenues of memories, fragrant with baby powder and apple juice and happiness.

“... where a body identified as that of Melanie Blackwell was found earlier today. Stay tuned for weather and sports coming up next on KSON.”

Kathy jerked upright in her seat. “What did he say?” she demanded of Mike.

“Who?”

“On the radio. About Melanie Blackwell. What did he say?”

“I wasn’t listening. Why? Do you know her?”

“She owned the preschool I sent Jessica to. I thought he said she was found dead.”

Mike hit his brakes and pulled over to the side of the road. He turned the dial on the radio, searching for another report on the story. No luck.

Kathy gave him directions to the preschool, her fists clenched into painful balls in her lap. It was late and everyone at PalmValley might have gone home already. Fortunately, they weren’t far away and in a matter of minutes they pulled into the lot and parked.

Mike followed Kathy as she rushed to the door. The entryway was hushed and dim, all of the children safely at home, but the door was unlocked, so someone must be around. Kathy tapped the bell on the front counter and they waited for a response.

A few moments later Alice Wender lumbered in. Her eyes were red and had streaks of makeup below them. She clenched a wadded tissue in one hand and a box of them in the other. She stared at Kathy for a moment as if she didn’t recognize her, and then she made the connection.

“Oh, Mrs. Jordan. Did you hear?”

Kathy stepped forward, touching the other woman’s shoulder with concern.

“I only heard part of what happened, Alice. Is it true that Melanie is dead?”

Alice nodded, apparently just noticing Mike. Stopping, she stared from him back to Kathy.

“This is Detective Simens, Alice.”

A weary frown turned down the corners of Alice’s mouth. “I’ve already told the police everything I know,” she said to Mike. “They had me for hours and hours. I just don’t know anything else.”

She began to cry, mopping at her eyes with the wad in her hand before cramming it into her already-stuffed pocket and reaching for a dry tissue.

“Mike’s here with me to help find Jessica, not about Melanie.”

The reminder of Jessica made Alice cry harder. She fumbled her way to her chair and plopped down in it.

“Has the world gone crazy?” she moaned. “First that sweet girl of yours and now Melanie.”

Kathy leaned against the counter, fighting to keep control of her own emotions and not join Alice in an emotional breakdown.

“What happened to Melanie, Alice?” Kathy asked softly.

“It was terrible. Terrible. Who would do such a thing to her?”

Kathy shook her head. Mike seemed to fade into the background, letting Kathy take over.

“They discovered her body last night. This morning. A drunk driver…. They might never have found her.”

Kathy blinked. “She was killed by a drunk driver?”

“No, she was killed someplace and then dumped out by where they’re building Highway 57. A drunk driver thought the construction was finished and took the exit right off to nowhere. They were clearing away his wreck when they found her.”

She sprouted fresh tears, cramming yet another clump of tissues into her pocket and reaching for a fresh one.

“I’d been calling her ever since she didn’t show up for work. She’s always here. I called and called. No answer.” She blew her nose. “At lunch 1 even went to her house. I looked in the windows and nothing seemed out of place, but when I got back, I was worried, so I called the police.”

She looked up long enough to glare at Mike. “They don’t count a person missing until it’s too late.”

“Do they have any ideas about what happened to her, Alice?”

Alice gave her a blank look. “She was murdered. Raped and murdered,” she said, as if explaining the facts of life to a child. “I had to identify her. Her throat had been cut ear to ear. Ear to ear, Mrs. Jordan. It was terrible.”

Mike rested his elbows on the counter, looking down at the pathetic figure Alice made, slumped in her seat like a sack of potatoes bulging at the seams. Alice sniffed into another tissue; crumpled balls overflowed from her pocket onto the floor.

“When was the last time you saw Melanie Blackwell?” Mike asked.

“Right before she left on Wednesday,” she answered, nodding to herself. “I was cleaning up a mess in the Blue Room, so I was here late. She popped in and said good night. That was the last time I ever saw her. Alive, I mean.”

“What time was that?” Mike asked.

“Between six and six-thirty.”

“Did you notice anything peculiar about her that night?”

“Peculiar?” She thought about this for a moment. “No.”

Something in the back of Kathy’s mind caught and stuck. Like a record skipping on the same word over and over. Peculiar. Peculiar.

“Wait a minute,” Kathy said. “I remember something. When I came to pick up Jessica . . . Melanie was putting on makeup. Like she had a date.”

Kathy and Mike looked at Alice expectantly. Alice shook her head.

“She didn’t say anything to me about it if she did and, as far as I know, she wasn’t seeing anyone. She was a lonely woman, Melanie. No family. I don’t think she got out much.”

“Can I see her office?” Mike asked.

Alice gave him a once-over that she must have honed from years of subduing toddlers with just a look. Realizing he was not to be intimidated, she hauled herself to her feet and shuffled from around the corner.

“The police have already been through it all. Don’t you guys ever talk to each other?” She didn’t wait for an answer as she opened the door and let him in. While he looked around the bright room, she turned to Kathy.

“Have they had any luck finding your little one?”

Kathy shook her head. “Not yet, but Mike’s helping me. We’ll find her.”

Alice nodded as if she didn’t believe a word of it but had decided to keep her opinion to herself. She stared back at Mike, watching as he opened desk drawers.

He turned to the filing cabinet, giving Kathy a look from across the room. Pulling the top drawer out, he let his fingers walk across the assorted tabs poking up. He pushed it shut and pulled out the second.

“Does every child who attends have a file?” he asked.

Alice nodded. “That’s where we keep their medical information. Who to contact in case of an emergency. That sort of thing. We get that before we’ll take the child.”

“Does Jessica Jordan still have one?” he asked.

“Of course. I mean, I didn’t pull it and Melanie hasn’t been back….

She sniffled bravely and marched over to the filing cabinet. She flipped through the folders, paused, and started again.

“I know she had one. I made it myself when she started.” She looked at Kathy. “You did fill out emergency information, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I remember doing it. Melanie was a stickler for procedure.”

Alice nodded, blushing. “I do remember she was upset about your tardiness, Mrs. Jordan. Maybe she pulled it out for some reason.” She began sorting through Melanie’s desk, mumbling to herself.

Mike moved to Kathy’s side, whispering that he’d be right back as he went out the door. Kathy stared around the room while she waited. Jessica had loved this place. Called it fairyland.

Jessica, where are you now? Don’t give up. Mommy will find you.

Mike returned. In his hand, he had the file folder he’d found in Porter’s house. He held it out for Alice to see.

“Is this the folder?” he asked.

She recoiled, taking it from him with obvious hesitation. Holding it by the corner between her thumb and forefinger, she stared at the grease and chew marks. “That’s it. That’s my writing on the label.”

Mike nodded. “I thought so.”

Chapter Twenty-One

DC stepped from his car, tucking his chin low on his chest. He’d traded his dress shoes for boots and his trousers for blue jeans that chafed when he walked. His hair was tucked under a cowboy hat that kept his eyes in shadow.

He opened the door to Hookey’s Bar and walked in. Nervously, he checked out the two big guys playing pool. A fat bartender with dimpled arms and bloated breasts asked him what he wanted. Moments later she put his change in front of him, sloshing it with beer from a dripping mug.

With marked casualness, he took his beer and sauntered to the phone, stuck between doors marked
men
and
women
. His palms were sweaty and he nearly dropped the slick mug on the way. He felt buzzed, hyped by the adrenaline shooting through his system. Setting his beer on the top of the phone, he dialed the long-distance number from memory and deposited two dollars in change.

“FortGeneralHospital,” a nasal-voiced woman answered.

“Greg Gainer,” DC said.

He waited, nervously scanning the bar. The pool game ended and the players racked up another. It seemed to take forever before Greg answered.

“It’s me,” DC said.

“Where you been, man?”

“Working on our deal,” he answered, keeping his voice low and cool. He didn’t want Greg to know how uptight he felt. “I’ve got it.”

A lengthy pause stretched across the miles and started a quake in the pit of DC’s stomach. Something was wrong.

“That’s good. That’s real good, man,” Greg said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “But you got to sit tight, you know? Things are too hot right now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Listen up. The place is crawling with FBI. Somehow it leaked out, man. I gotta keep low. You too, man. Wherever you are, stay there.”

“FBI?” DC repeated, turning his back on the bar.

“Yeah, man. It leaked, I’m telling you. I don’t know who. I think it was a nurse. Now they’re checking all the records looking…you know.” Greg cleared his throat. He sounded panicked. Worse, he sounded frantic. “Don’t worry, though. I’m working on lining things up somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll let you know when it’s time. You just sit tight.”

DC heard voices in the background on the other end. Greg muffled the mouthpiece and talked to them for a moment. DC spent the time collecting his thoughts. What the hell was he going to do now?

Greg came back. “Sorry, man, I gotta cruise. You got the girl, right?”

“J. Jordan. Heart donor.”

“Shit man, not on the phone,” Greg hissed. “Listen up. Keep it cool, man. Stay low. Call me next week and I’ll give you the drop.”

“I can’t wait that long. Things are hot here, too. They’re looking for her.”

“So don’t let them find her. Next week.”

DC nodded to the dial tone. Next week? How would he last that long?

He replaced the receiver, trying to maintain composure. In the gritty men’s room, he closed the door and splashed cold water on his face, staring into a rusted sink. Now what? He wouldn’t last another week with getting caught. He knew it.

Back at the phone, he retrieved his beer and downed it. From his back pocket he pulled a folded sheet of paper with Jessica Jordan’s emergency information on it. He dialed the home number. The phone rang twenty times before he hung up.

Cursing, he returned to the bar for another beer. The five o’clock news was playing on a TV tucked under a ceiling beam. Feeling as if the worst had already happened, he watched in horror as his picture, subtitled
Dwight ”DC” Porter
appeared on the screen alongside a composite picture that looked as good as a photo. Shit!

A grim newscaster described the alleged abductor’s car, complete with plate number. The police had connected Jessica Jordan’s kidnapping and Melanie Blackwell’s murder to him! How the hell had they done that so quickly?

Christie McCoy. Her name popped into his head. It wasn’t enough she had his house. Now she wanted his freedom.

He rubbed his hands on his jeans and wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve. Taking another gulp of his beer, he winced as he forced the swallow past his constricted throat muscles. The broadcast took a commercial break. Grateful, DC stood. Pulling the brim of his hat low on his forehead, he went back to the phone. He called Kathy Jordan’s number again.

This time she answered. “Hello?”

“Listen, bitch,” he said, impressing himself with his cold, steady voice. “You want to see your daughter again, you listen and do exactly what I say.”

He felt her terrified silence leap across the line. She took a couple of short breaths. He could picture her face. Empowered, he stood straighter.

“Where is she?” she demanded. “Where’s my daughter? I want to talk to her—”

“You’re not in a position to want anything. Shut up.”

She made a funny little noise, then covered the receiver with her hand. She was talking to someone in the background. The cops?