As Laura pulled away from the curb, she left Josie Lambert standing at the door, looking up and down the tree-lined street. Laura drove out of the neighborhood and turned onto Industrial Drive. Auto-parts stores, machine shops, and used car dealerships whizzed by. She checked her rearview mirror. A black SUV was behind her.
Laura turned onto the curving entrance road to the Erie County Recycling Center. She passed a huge dumpster, overflowing with yard waste. A man was heaving a bag of lawn clippings into the bin. She passed the glass recycling center and cringed at the sound of bottles being ground into sparkling shards. She watched an industrial trash compactor flatten mounds of trash.
She parked outside Building C. Paul Lambert ran the scrap metal reclamation operation in the sprawling, yellow, corrugated tin structure.
Laura walked toward the southwest corner of the building. She followed signs pointing to the office. She passed stripped cars, rusted refrigerators, broken air conditioners, and stacks of copper pipe. She saw Mr. Lambert waiting at the office entrance, holding open the door, smiling out like an old friend.
“My wife called and told me you were coming.” He ushered her in—his long, muscular right arm stretched out in a grand gesture. “After you.”
Such a gentleman.
Laura glanced at his rugged face, thick neck, broad shoulders, and salt-and-pepper hair. The man was one of those young sixty-somethings—the ones you saw in TV travel ads. The physically-fit ones who pissed off overweight thirty-year-olds.
Lambert extended a calloused right hand. Laura grasped it and shook. Hell of a handshake, she thought. Laura widened her smile to hide her skepticism. “How can I help you, sir? Your wife told me you have information to share. She said you have an idea about who may have killed Erin.”
“I have something to show you.”
“Oh?”
He opened a steel door that led into the plant, where useless throwaways were shredded, twisted, and melted for rebirth. He motioned her through with another sweeping gesture. “Step right in. It’s right here.”
Laura stalled at the sight of the stripping and crushing machines.
“After you,” he said. “I insist.”
She thanked him and passed by him.
The automatic lock self-activated behind them. No employees were at work. It was just the two of them. Alone together. With the scrap metal and grinding machines.
Laura scanned the interior of the building. Twisted steel and mangled aluminum overflowed from large, green bins. Dismembered cars and kitchen appliances that had been trashed by their owners awaited mangling. Destruction before resurrection. The automated crushing and shearing machines—idle for the moment—were set to flatten, cut, and spew out reclaimed iron, steel, nickel, and copper.
Laura coughed into her sleeve. The air was toxic. It dripped with chemicals used to strip rust. She looked from the concrete floor to the high ceiling. Four hardened steel rafters ran from north to south. She clutched her cell phone like it was a weapon, even though she knew there was no service in this tin coffin.
“Congratulations, Laura.” Paul Lambert’s voice was low and firm. “You performed well at the trial. You proved your client’s innocence. You exonerated him. You won the day.”
“The facts were on my side.” Laura fought back the waver in her voice. “All I did was let the truth reveal itself.”
“We had Eddie Nash all wrong. We persecuted an innocent man. We made a terrible mistake. We owe him so much.”
“It’s history now.” Laura forced a smile. “Time to move on.”
“Is it?” Lambert retorted. “A killer is still out there.”
“The police are on it. They’re closing in on him. The Hangman of Eden is going down. Justice will be done.”
“I know who did it.” Lambert smiled with wide eyes. “I know who killed my little girl.”