The Corpse in the Cactus Page 14

  They counted seven.

  “Okay,” she said. “The phony driver’s license was from Ohio, Delbert Frimel croaked in Pennsylvania. Let’s put some order to these.” She looked up at the United States map on her computer screen.

  “Is there a plate from Ohio or Pennsylvania?”

  “Both,” he said, handing them to her.

  She placed the Pennsylvania plate on the left corner of his desk. “This was the starting point,” she said. “Logic says Ohio was step two.”

  “He was running from something, or someone, and was good at erasing himself.”

  Maggie hit the print key and the printer spat out the map. She rose from her chair and retrieved it, slapping it down on her desk. “This’ll make it easier,” she said, circling Sunbury, Pennsylvania with a black, felt tipped marker.

  “Where in Ohio was the driver’s license issued?”

  “Springfield.”

  Maggie grabbed the Ohio license plate and placed it next to the one from Pennsylvania. “Step two,” she said. “What are the other states?”

  Aaron shuffled through them. “New Mexico, Illinois, Oklahoma, Missouri. This guy sure made tracks. Oh, and Arkansas.”

  “I’d bet there was a trail of stolen cars that followed the same path,” Maggie mumbled to herself as she studied the map. “Put Illinois next to Ohio. Put Missouri after that. Now Arkansas.”

  She circled the states as Aaron lined up the license plates.

  “Oklahoma next.”

  “That leaves New Mexico as the caboose,” he said, placing it at the end of the line. “Oh, I checked it out and the Delbert Frimel driver’s license was first issued ten years ago, so it must’ve been close to that time that our guy hit the road and took on his new identity.”

  “Ten years is a long time to be on the lam,” she said as she circled New Mexico. “A person can do six, maybe seven-hundred miles a day. Eight-hundred max, but that’d be pushing it. This guy settled awhile in several places…”

  “He’d have needed money to keep on the move.”

  “If Frimel was that hard to get a hit on he worked menial labor along the way.”

  “Getting paid under the table. No record. No trail.”

  “Dishwashing. Bussing tables. Day labor.”

  She studied the map, running her fingers along the routes Delbert Frimel/John Doe might have driven. Instead of taking major arteries he likely kept to minor, less traveled roads. It would take longer but there was less chance of being spotted.

  “No, Pennsylvania isn’t step one,” she corrected. “It’s step two. Step one, the location from where he started, would have been east of there. He’d have been on the road awhile before hitting Pennsylvania.” Her marker traced an outline of the United States from New York and all the way north to Maine. New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine. One of those states had to have been his starting point. If he was on the run there was no way he’d have started in New Jersey or Maryland and headed north before veering to the west. He’s have looked for the fastest way to get the hell out of Dodge.

  That narrowed the number of search states to six, eliminating a whopping forty-four.

  “I’ve got another project,” she said, handing him the map.“Go back ten years on each of these states and bring up what crimes you can that happened within, say, a six month time frame before Mr. Doe found his new identity.”

  “That could be thousands,” he said. “Counting New York it could be millions.”

  “Narrow it as best you can. Look for ‘wanted’s’ that fit his general age and description. Start with felonies and work your way down. See if anything fits.”

  “Geez Louise, Maggie.”

  “It’s called old-fashioned police work.”

  “It could take days.”

  “You got anything better to do?”

  * * * *

  The young man had left another paper bag outside her motel room door. She didn’t answer when he knocked, but waited until the door slammed down the hall before opening her own and looking out. She picked up the bag then spun around, double locking the door behind her.

  She plopped down on the bed, curious as to what his latest gift to her might be. On one level his game scared her, on another it was like opening presents on Christmas or her birthday.

  When she reached inside the bag, her fingers felt something soft and fluffy. Slowly, she pulled it out, looking at it with puzzlement and confusion.

  A sensation swelled and grew deep in her stomach as she stared at it. A feeling akin to emptiness—or longing—or something not quite remembered. She wondered why he had given her this old thing as she held it in her hands and studied it. Two black button eyes looked back at her. It was a brown teddy bear. She laughed at the small tear where it’s nose had once been, loose threads hanging from its wound like make-believe boogers. It must have been a child’s well-loved and cherished companion, as the fur was stained and the fabric was thread-bare where the child had carried it around by it’s neck. Her body rocked back and forth as she clutched the bear against her chest, holding it tightly and comforting it.

  “I’ll call you Mr. Muggles,” she whispered into its ragged ear. One lone tear traced a path down her cheek. “That’s a good name, don’t you think?”

  She recognized his knock.

  This time she opened it, just a crack.

  “It’s time we talked,” he said.

  “I don’t know you.”

  “You do. But you might not remember me. I’m David.”

  At first it meant nothing to her. David. David. But his name held the same vague familiarity she felt when she’d decided to call the teddy bear Mr. Muggles.

  “My name is Darlene.”

  “No, your name is Darla.”

  Reluctantly, she let him in.

  They talked for a long time. After he left, he dialed a long distance number.

  “I’ll make a reservation for a red eye flight that’ll have you here tomorrow,” he said. “I think she’s ready. I’ll email you the ticket info and boarding passes. When you get here take a taxi to the address I’m sending you.”

  There was a pause as he listened to the voice at the other end.

  “No. I don’t want her out of my sight. Do it my way. When you get here go to Room Twelve. I’ll be waiting.”

  At the same time he was on the phone, the girl was dialing the number on Maggie Reardon’s business card.

  “I need your help,” she sobbed. “My…husband…is missing.”

  * * * *

  The loud afternoon sun screamed across the car’s windshield, temporarily blinding Maggie Reardon as she turned west onto Miracle Mile. She was heading for the Pink Flamingo Motel. The Mary Smith girl, the one who had made the series of 911 disconnects, had refused to come to the police department to file a missing persons report. That was odd enough in itself. Then she’d said she wasn’t supposed to leave her room, which struck Maggie as even stranger. If her husband’s disappearing act was important, you’d think she’d be down there in a New York minute. It could be nothing more than a man out on a binge and Maggie could have written it off right there. Oddballs were everywhere and there was no crime in that. But something hadn’t felt right. Her curiosity was getting the best of her. She’d known the woman was lying. The what and why of it begged answers. If the young woman wouldn’t come to Maggie then Maggie would go to her.

  It was time to fill in some blanks.

  * * * *

  Maggie’s conversation with the young woman was as strange as their first. And as guarded. She had finally confessed that her name was Darlene rather than Mary, but even that tidbit changed from Darlene to Darla and then back again. And she damn near panicked when Maggie asked her for her last name. It was as if she didn’t know. Or was afraid to give the true answer. The woman
clutched a bag of animal cookies and nibbled on them nervously every time Maggie asked a question. She was as skittish as a feral cat and twice as wary. Maggie sensed that if she pushed too hard Darlene would stop talking altogether. She needed to rein in her impatience and gain the woman’s trust. A little information was better than none at all. At least for now.

  Darlene had tossed the empty animal cookie bag into the wastebasket and replaced it with a worn out teddy bear, clutching it close. The most she was able to get out of her was a physical description of her missing husband, whose name also seemed to have escaped her.

  His description sounded familiar.

  He sounded a hell of a lot like her John Doe from the Arizona-Sonoran Desert Museum who had been removed from his cactus bed only to take up residence on a cold slab in the morgue.

  But Maggie didn’t tell her that. She had the impression that Darlene was too fragile to digest it in one big dose. Instead Maggie wrote in her notepad, jotting down what little information Darlene provided. She’d have to get a few head shots of the man they found in the javelina enclosure and hope that Darla/Darlene could handle it when she had her identify the body from the photos.

  They could take her in for questioning after that, whether she liked it or not.

  There was also the chance that she was trying to cover up. If she and the man down the hall were lovers, one of them could be the killer. It’s not rare that the first person who offers assistance in an investigation is the perpetrator. They think their cooperation removes them from the suspect list, but more often than not the opposite is true.

  “I’ll get back to you,” she’d said reassuringly.

  She’d need to work through this in baby steps.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Nightmares

  When Maggie returned to the office, Aaron Iverson was sitting at the desk next to hers sifting through a shoulder-high stack of print-outs. She almost felt guilty saddling him with such a tedious task. Almost. It was better than his being on temporary leave with nothing to do but replay Jerry Montana’s actions over and over in his head, second-guessing his own performance between trips to the department shrink. She told herself she was doing him a favor, but she was doing herself a bigger one. She liked the action on the street. It made her feel alive. Being hunched over a computer or filling out reports was as much fun as a windowless room full of accountants juggling numbers in their claustrophobic cubicles.

  Like she’d told Rocco, she needed air.

  And elbow room.

  “How’s it coming?” she asked.

  “Frustrating.” He said he was narrowing them down by time frame, description, and state. The wastepaper basket was overflowing, but there was a secondary stack of reports next to the taller pile that he said was half-way promising and worth a second look.

  “Frazzled?”

  “You betcha, Detective Reardon. My eyes feel like a John Deere yanked them right out of their sockets.”

  “Then let’s call it a day.”

  He wore a bloodshot expression of relief, followed by a weak thank you. He needn’t know it was primarily because she wanted to feed her cat and take a hot shower. And that Italian dinner Rocco La Crosse had promised. She’d been so caught up in her work that she’d forgotten to eat. Caffeine and nicotine and the occasional hit of adrenaline could carry her just so far. She was getting hungry.

  Maggie hoped that her second official date with Rocco would be as good as the first one. Maybe that initial rush was as good as it gets, that had proven true in the past. But she’d prefer it was a harbinger of better things to come.

  Was there anything that could top the first time with a new lover, let alone match it?

  Only time would tell.

  * * * *

  Maggie sat in her father’s overstuffed chair, basking in the afterglow of her second date with Rocco La Crosse. Prowler sat on her lap, admonishing her with soft growls. She felt bad leaving him alone so much, so she consoled him with chin rubs and scratched him on the spot where his tail met his back. He always liked that. It was the one spot he was unable to reach himself. His tongue darted in and out like he was having a seizure and his back rose high as she scratched him toward his feline ecstacy. He purred. Men and cats. They could be easy and they could be impossible.

  * * * *

  The meal Rocco had prepared on their first date was great, but the Italian food they’d shared tonight was even better. And the big bottle of Chianti they’d polished off wasn’t bad either.

  She’d taken the alpha role again, leading him straight to the bedroom before their dinner had a chance to settle. If the first night had been a violin solo by Itzak Perlman, then tonight was the entire Philharmonic Orchestra playing the 1812 Overture. Their first time had been wonderful, no argument there, but they’d been cautious, careful not to overstep some unknown, invisible boundary. This time their kisses were filled with anticipation as they explored new territory. They found each others perfect spots and spiked their intensity by sizzling degrees. Afterwards they collapsed, exhausted and comfortable. It didn’t bother him when she’d dressed and headed for home rather than falling asleep against his chest as she’d done the first time.

  Perfect.

  Like a good book, the night had a beginning, a middle and an end.

  Prowler jumped off her lap, his paws padding softly across the floor as he headed to the bedroom, determined to get the best spot on the mattress before his mistress joined him. Maggie looked around the living room, at all the decorations and mementos and stacks of dusty books that had been there since she was a child. Nothing had been changed. Nothing. It was as if she’d preserved it as a permanent shrine to her parent’s memory.

  Jerry Montana.

  He just woke up from where he’d been sleeping in that uncomfortable corner of her brain and gave her a nasty kick. Was she just as trapped in the past as he had been? Were her surroundings an indication that she was in danger of slipping down that same, dark hole? Well, she wasn’t about to let that happen.

  “Snap out of it, Maggie,” she ordered herself. “It’s time for the present.”

  Thrift stores were out there for good reason. They were places to let go of the past. Tomorrow she’d get boxes and start packing things up. It was time to see these possessions for what they were. They were memories, not her parents. She didn’t need to be surrounded by them to hold on to those memories. The chair in which she sat was too comfortable to give up, but she could have it re-upholstered. Her mother’s small jewelry box and its contents were treasures that would stay right where they were. But they’d be in perspective rather than taking front stage. Everything else could slip back into its own decade, to be rediscovered by someone walking down the aisles of the second-hand store discovering them for the first time.

  It was the sane thing to do.

  Jerry Montana’s loss had killed him long before he’d killed himself.

  She could almost hear her parents applauding from above. Or from wherever people go once their time on earth is finished. Their time was behind them and hers was ahead of her. It didn’t mean she loved them any less.

  She would repaint the walls. In cheerful colors. And pull down the heavy drapes that covered the windows leaving a dark pall. It was time for the house to be happy again.

  “Let there be light,” she said as she rose and headed for the bedroom.

  No way in hell was she going to end up like Jerry Montana.

  She slid under the covers and was asleep by the time her head hit the pillow.

  In the middle of the night she awoke to a loud, metallic clanking from outside the bedroom walls. Was somebody trying to remove the wrought iron bars at her window? Her heartbeat increased along with the racket. Clank, clank, clank. She threw back the covers and reached for the handgun on her night stand. Home invasions were no stranger to Tucson.

  Cl
ank.

  Thud. Thud. Thump.

  Gun in hand, she tiptoed out of the bedroom, through the living room and kitchen and unlocked the back door without making a sound. If someone was looking for trouble, then Maggie Reardon was ready to meet them head on. She followed the sound as she edged slowly along the side of the house and peered around the corner. The big, metal swamp cooler stood like a metallic sentinel, lit faintly by the moonlight and surrounded by awkwardly moving shadows.

  Javelinas.

  She’d forgotten to close the gate.

  Their sense of smell was impressive. A family of them were throwing their bodies against the metal walls of the cooler, then rooting impatiently where it kissed the ground, frantic to get to the water inside. Water was scarce in the desert and they thought they’d found their treasure.

  They were mistaken.

  Maggie stomped her feet and yelled, “Shoo!”

  A large boar turned to face her, snorting loudly and shifting his weight from one foot to another. Others joined him, huddling at his sides.

  “Pose and threat all you want, mister. You might have tusks but I’ve got the gun. And it’s loaded and ready. Now shoo before I start shooting! Shoo, shoo, shoo!”

  He stomped his feet and Maggie stomped hers.

  She continued her threatening dance, waving her arms high above her head while growling at them.

  A few more snorts, squeals and stomps before they turned and ran. They had an odd arthritic-like gait, walking stiffly as if they had no knees. The snorting and squealing was slowly swallowed by the night.

  Maggie latched the gate then returned to her bedroom.

  Sleep was disturbing and intermittent. Dreams drifted in and out between the dark nothingness of deep slumber.

  Dismembered arms reached out from clusters of cacti, their gnarled fingers raking furrows along the dusty ground. The Book of Mormon did battle with a bible and Koran while Madeline Murray O’Hare looked on, laughing from where she stood in the shadows. Julie London sang “The Thrill is Gone” and Alex Trebek led the orchestra while bright pink animal crackers danced to the tune. Rocco La Crosse stood naked in the desert, arms reaching upward toward the heavens like a canonized saint and the dry arroyos ran red with blood.