CHAPTER 17

 

On my way to Beck’s, I took a side trip back into town to have a chat with Rich McPherson. I found him in his store, still a little hyped-up over the morning’s excitement. He jumped at the beep of the opening door, dropping a handful of phone cards he’d been hooking on a display.

He bent to gather them up. “Everything turn out okay with the little boy?”

“He’s with his mama, safe and sound.” I gave him a pat on the back, relieved at the absence of booze breath. “Good job. Sheriff owes you a medal.”

He hung the last of the cards on the counter display, then grabbed the empty box. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to take another look at that invoice for Mrs Lopez’s TV.”

Fingers wrapped tight around the box in his hands, he stared at me. “I might not have it anymore. I cleared out a bunch of the old invoices after you were here.”

“You threw them away?”

The box started to collapse under his grip. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure if I did anything at all with it.”

I wondered what had happened to Mr Helpful of two days ago. “Take a look, see if it’s still there.”

“The truth is, the owner of the store, Mr Templeton, didn’t like me showing you the invoice in the first place. He says that information is private.” He continued to mangle the box. “I’m sorry.”

“Any chance I could talk to Mr Templeton about that?”

“He’s an out-of-towner. Even I have a hard time reaching him.” He set the crushed box down on the counter. “What was it you were looking for? Maybe I could check the invoice myself and see if the information is there. I don’t think Mr Templeton would mind that.”

McPherson hadn’t struck me as the “company man” type, but maybe Templeton had busted his chops when he’d found out Rich had been showing the store’s business files to overly nosy private investigators. “I just wanted to know who installed the equipment Mrs Lopez bought.”

He went behind the counter and opened the file drawer. When he pulled out the invoice, he held it close, like a poker player protecting his cards. “Oh,” he said, the single syllable rich with meaning. He looked over at me. “It was Chuck Pickford.”

“What lamebrain hires a child molester to go into people’s homes as an installer?”

McPherson stuffed the invoice back into the filing cabinet. “He’s Mr Templeton’s brother-in-law. He only lasted a week. Too many customers complained.”

I thanked Rich and left. On my way to Beck’s, I passed the Gold Rush Inn again, but figured I didn’t have the time to stop. Ken probably had turned over booking Lucy to one of his deputies, and might already be at the mobile home park.

I’d definitely have to have another conversation with Pickford before I left. I couldn’t see Mrs Lopez confiding her deepest secrets to him, but maybe he’d seen something that would give me a clue as to where to look next.

Ken was parked out in front of Beck’s mobile when I got there, waiting inside his Explorer. He was typing into his onboard computer with the same henpeck he’d used back at SFPD, but he’d gotten surprisingly fast with the two-fingered approach.

He picked the warrant up from the seat and slung a digital camera around his neck. “The facility manager gave me the key.”

Ken knocked first, even though there was still no car in the driveway. “Paul Beck! Open up. I have a warrant to search your premises.”

As expected, no answer. Digging a couple of pairs of latex gloves from his pocket, Ken unlocked the door and pushed it open. The cloying smell of over-ripe garbage wafted out as we stepped inside. It didn’t have the familiar stench of a rotting body, but a thrill jetted down my spine at the thought that maybe Beck hadn’t answered because he’d offed himself in his bedroom.

No such luck. Beck was just a lousy housekeeper. He’d left a half-filled bag of trash in the kitchen and nature had taken its course over the few days he’d been gone.

Although dirty dishes littered the kitchen counter, he kept his living room neat. Not much in the way of furnishings – a thrift store sofa and coffee table, an easy chair with stuffing coming loose, a VCR and old 19-inch television. A few magazines on the table – Newsweek, People, Better Homes & Gardens for God’s sake – nothing that raised red flags.

Gloved up, Ken snapped some pictures, then rifled through the video tapes. “They all have commercial labels. No porn. No kiddy movies.”

I perused the pile of books on the floor beside the sofa. “He could have recorded over them.”

“True. I’ll take them in to be sure.” He started stacking the tapes on the coffee table.

“Books are all thrillers, mysteries. A Sudoku magazine. A book of baby names. That’s creepy.” I set it on the coffee table. “A newsletter from the Holy Rock Baptist church.” I slipped it out from the pages of the hardcover Beck had stuffed it in.

“Maybe he’s got religion,” Ken suggested with a straight face.

“Or maybe that’s a good place to meet kids.”

I lifted the sofa cushions and found a couple of well-chewed pencils, several pennies and a cough drop. Then I stretched out on the floor and checked under the sofa. Nothing but dust bunnies.

“Ready for the bedroom?” Ken asked.

I levered myself up and followed Ken down the hall. The double bed looked as thrift store as the living room suite, its chenille spread threadbare. The mini-blinds over the window were bent and, based on the tangled cord, were stuck halfway up. The lamp on the battered nightstand alongside the bed was missing its shade.

On a hunch, I lifted the side of the bedspread and bent down to take a look under the bed. I found a shoebox tucked up alongside the nightstand. “Can I borrow that camera?”

I photographed the bed with its upturned bedspread, then the box in place. Using Ken’s flashlight to extend my reach, I slid the box out, then set it on the bed.

I stepped back, musing that it would be nice if the box contained a stash of baseball cards, or Beck’s stamp collection. Wishful thinking.

Ken tipped off the lid, took a couple of pictures, then removed the items one by one and laid them on the bed. They really didn’t look like much – a couple of boys’ socks, a video game case, a bookmark, a small plastic weapon from some action figure. But knowing what those odds and ends represented to Beck gave me the heebie-jeebies.

“You think this stuff is recent?” I asked as Ken photographed Beck’s collection.

“The video game is for a Super Nintendo console. Those haven’t been out for a long time.” When I gave him a look, he shrugged. “I found one used at a yard sale. Cassie read me the riot act when I tried to give it to her.”

“Then maybe these are old souvenirs.”

Footsteps in the living room brought Ken to attention. He stepped between me and the bedroom door, had his hand on his Glock .22 when Paul Beck appeared in the doorway.

Beck gave us an innocent, puzzled look. “What’s going on?” His gaze fell on the bits and pieces we’d laid out on the bed. His eyes widened.

“You want to tell me about this, Mr Beck?” Ken asked.

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple working. “I found them.”

“Where?” I asked. “In some little boy’s bedroom?”

Beck shook his head. “Just around. The socks at the Laundromat, the video case in the trash. I’m allowed to pick through the garbage if I want.”

Ken gave him a nudge. “Let’s talk about this in the living room, Mr Beck.” We trooped out of the bedroom.

“Does your parole officer know what you keep under your bed?” I asked.

Beck suddenly found his toes fascinating. I stepped into his line of sight. “How do you think the parents would feel knowing you’re using their kids’ castoffs for inspiration on lonely nights? It’s not a long step toward using the kids themselves.”

Beck turned away. “I’ve been chemically castrated. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.”

I moved to get in his face again. “If you wanted to, you’d find a way.”

I saw the guilt in his eyes. A powerful need had driven him to collect those childish odds and ends. He knew I saw it, too.

Ken elbowed me aside. “Where have you been, Mr Beck?”

“At my sister’s place,” Beck said. “In Santa Rosa.”

“Have you been messing with those boys?” Ken asked.

“No!” Beck whined. “My sister knows better. She sends them off to her ex when I’m there.”

“Why so spur of the moment, Beck?” I asked. “You up and left with hardly a word to anyone.”

“Our father died last week,” Beck said, getting all misty eyed. “My sister and I are settling his affairs.”

I had a sneaking suspicion it was dear old dad who made Beck the man he was. I still found it difficult to generate any sympathy for him.

Ken pulled out his pad and a pen. “Write down your sister’s phone number. I need to talk with her.”

All woebegone, Beck took the pad. “You won’t tell her about my box?”

“Write down the damn number,” Ken growled.

Beck wrote the number in neat digits and handed the pad back to Ken. Ken stepped outside to make the call. The metal shell of Beck’s mobile home made cell reception impossible.

I tipped my head toward the bedroom. “All that crap in the box probably violates your parole.”

His lower lip trembled like a remorseful little boy’s. “Please. Can’t you just take it, throw it away?”

“Help me out here,” I said, implying we’d scratch each other’s backs. I showed Beck James’s and Enrique’s photos. “Have you seen these two around?”

He looked at them sidelong, as if the temptation to stray would be too strong viewing them straight on. “No.”

I stuck them back in his field of view. “You sure?”

He gave the two pictures another quick once-over. Recognition lit in his face. He gave me a wary look as if he was afraid I was trying to trick him.

“Maybe...” He reached for James’s photo.

Remembering Pickford’s sick delight at touching the picture of Enrique, I held James’s slightly out of reach. “What?”

Beck shook his head. “Probably not the same kid.”

“Tell me anyway,” I pressed.

He glanced down at James’s photo again, then up at me. “I was fly fishing on the river late one afternoon. Fishing helps me think. Keeps my mind off... You know, things.”

I tamped down my impatience. “So while you were communing with nature, what did you see?”

“I saw someone running through the trees on the other side of the river. It was such a quick glimpse, I thought I was seeing things. But then I heard someone yelling for him to stop.”

“Did he look like this kid?”

“I told you, I just saw him a couple of seconds. But it could have been a black kid.”

A chill trickled down my spine. “When was this?”

“About the time I started working at the Hangman’s Tavern. So it would have had to be three or four months ago.”

It fit the damn time frame. “Where on the river?”

He shrugged. “Maybe ten miles out of town. A quarter mile or so past the big turnout with the washed out stone bridge. There’s a tree down in the river upstream of there. A good spot for fishing.”

“An oak tree? Pulled up by the roots, maybe three feet or so in diameter?”

His head bobbed in agreement. “That’s the one.”

The same tree where I found Brandon’s glasses. Maybe. Or maybe Beck was making up the whole thing to make me happy. “So the kid’s running, people are screaming at him, it didn’t cross your mind to do anything about it?”

“When it comes to kids, I try to mind my own business. Keeps me out of trouble.”

I could see his point, but if it was James running for his life, it made me sick that Beck had done nothing. “You work at Hangman’s Tavern.”

“His gaze grew wary. “You won’t tell my boss–”

“You get your parole revoked, it won’t matter,” I told him. “Back at the end of December, do you remember a man with a heavy beard and long hair coming into the bar?”

He stared at me blankly a moment, then recognition lit his face. “The night Sondra set the dumpster on fire? The guy said his kid was sick and he needed baby aspirin.”

“Did you see the baby? Or some other kids in the car?”

He shook his head. “I told you, I stay away from kids.”

“Yeah, yeah, keeps you out of trouble.” But he’d confirmed for me that James’s kidnapper had been at the bar.

Ken’s boot steps on the stairs signaled his return. “His story checks out.” He ducked into the bedroom and returned with Beck’s treasure box. “I’ll be talking to your parole officer.”

As we were about to walk out, another thought struck me. “If you heard anything about that boy in Santa Rosa, you’d tell the sheriff, wouldn’t you, Paul?”

His eyes grew to saucer size. “I, uh... I don’t...” Beck didn’t do innocence well.

“I’m sure your parole doesn’t allow you to surf the internet,” I reminded him, “but we know you’ve been down to the library. I’m betting you know about the request for a boy in Santa Rosa.” I could see from his reaction he knew exactly what I was talking about. “Has that request been fulfilled?”

“N-n-no.” His Adam’s apple bounced.

Ken approached Beck, closing the distance between them to inches. “Stay off the computer, Mr Beck. Next time the librarian sees you on it, she’ll call me.”

Having scared the crap out of Beck, Ken walked with me to my Escort. “Sister said he was there the last three days.”

“How do you know she’s not lying for him?”

“She referred to him several times as ‘my creepy pervert brother.’” He opened the car door for me.

“He confirmed he saw the shaggy-haired guy at the tavern. He also gave me a story about seeing a kid out in the woods,” I told Ken. “Close to where Brandon went in, but on the other side of the river.”

“There’s maybe a half-dozen houses out there on a couple thousand acres of BLM land. What the hell would James be doing in such a remote location?”

“Someone took him there.” Likely to kill him. I couldn’t think of any other reason.

I swung into the Escort, my leg twinging. “You can’t drive out there, take a look? It sounds like it’s the same place where the fire was set, the one that threw the dogs off.”

He looked at me as if I was a loon. “I could if there were roads to drive on and the manpower to search. Or I could ask Sergeant Russell to deploy a mounted SAR team. But you want to be the one to articulate to him what your basis is for that wild-ass goose chase?”

He was right, but it didn’t make me any happier about it. I had one iffy witness of questionable character telling me that maybe he saw someone and maybe it was the kid I was looking for.

“Besides,” Ken said, “I thought you were leaving.”

Truly, I had all the data I needed. Any further investigation I could do from home in my spare time. If I came up with any solid leads, I could let Ken know.

I shoved my key in the ignition. “I will, as soon as I talk to Pickford again. Turns out he installed Mrs Lopez’s television.”

“I’ll follow you,” Ken said, swinging the door shut so I couldn’t argue.

I pulled out of the mobile home park, Ken on my tail, Tommy occupying my imagination. His sorrowful mug kept me company all the way to Pickford’s place.

 

Knowing I had to face the stairs again leading up to Grandpa Chuck’s, I made Ken wait for me while I did some calf stretches, my hands against the hood of the Explorer like a perp about to be searched. Ken took in every unsightly grimace and whimper of pain, never once offering up his services as a masseur. Obviously there was a cruel streak buried somewhere deep inside him.

My exertions put me in a nasty mood by the time I dragged myself up to the third floor. Pickford’s grandpa smile when he answered the door polished up my crappy disposition. His opening remark, “Good to see you again, Sheriff. Miss,” added the finishing touch.

I stiff-armed him backward into his living room, taking great satisfaction in the way he stumbled over an ottoman and fell on his butt. The son of a bitch just gave me a mournful smile, as if he didn’t understand why anyone would be pissed at him. Coming up beside me, Ken didn’t say a word about my rough handling.

I wrenched Pickford to his feet and shoved him down onto the ottoman. “Let’s talk about Mrs Lopez.”

He gave me a soulful look. “There’s no need to be rough. I’m glad to tell you what I know.”

“You installed her television and Blu-Ray. Did you see the boy there?”

He shook his head, brow furrowed. “What boy?”

Ken stepped in, a friendly hand on Pickford’s shoulder. “The Hispanic boy in the photo she showed you the other day.”

As if he’d only just remembered, Pickford’s face lit with recognition. “I do remember now. The little boy that’s missing.”

I leaned over, level with his face. “Where is he? Have you got him somewhere?”

“No!” His eyes widened, just a trace of fear flickering through them. “I never actually saw the boy. I only saw his picture.”

Disappointment nibbled at me. “At Mrs Lopez’s?”

He nodded. “She had it up on the wall. Alongside a few baby pictures.”

“Any sign that the boy was there?” Ken asked. “Toys strewn around? Kids’ books on the table, anything like that?”

“Not that I saw.” He locked his fingers together and rocked forward and back. “I was just there to do a job. I only noticed the pictures because they were on the wall above where I put the TV.”

Yeah, right. His wandering gaze likely zeroed right in on Enrique’s picture. “I bet you asked about him.”

“I was just trying to be friendly.” Chuck smiled, blue eyes all but twinkling. I wanted to rip away his kind facade, expose the evil behind it. “She was glad for the opportunity to talk about her grandson. She said he was three years old and he’d be coming to live with her soon so her daughter could get back on her feet.”

“Did she say when he’d be coming?” I asked.

Rubbing his chin, he made a show of trying to remember. “I don’t recall her mentioning when. Soon was all she said. She showed me the room she had set aside for him.”

Ken dug his fingers in a little deeper. “You had no business going into his bedroom.”

Pickford tried to wriggle out of Ken’s grip. “I told you. I was only being friendly. She offered to show me.”

No doubt after he dropped a few hints. I bet you have a nice room all ready for him, Mrs Lopez. The thought of him sniffing around the little boy’s room made me want to lop his head right off his shoulders.

Swallowing back my disgust, I got nose to nose with him. “I’m thinking Enrique was there. Maybe you were so friendly that day, Mrs Lopez invited you to come back. Maybe you even got to babysit the little tyke.”

“No. I’m telling you I never saw him.”

“And while you were alone with Enrique, you did what you do best. You showed him how much you really liked him. Didn’t you, Grandpa?”

“Damn it, I never saw the boy. He wasn’t living there yet.”

I wasn’t even sure what I was driving at, what I was hoping to get from Pickford. But I kept at him. “I bet you were disappointed, seeing all those pictures, hearing Mrs Lopez talk about her sweet little grandson. You were just aching to get your hands on him, weren’t you?” Remembering Beck’s stash, inspiration struck. “You took a souvenir instead, didn’t you? What did you take home that day, Grandpa?”

Now his blue eyes nearly goggled right out of his head. “What do you mean?” He choked out the words.

I angled a glance up at Ken. “Where is it, Pickford? Where’d you hide it so the sheriff couldn’t find it?”

He squirmed against Ken’s tight hold as if the miniscule fragment of guilt that he still harbored inside had broken loose and was worming its way through his body. His gaze shifted away from mine. “I wasn’t hiding it. I was just keeping it safe.”

Ken moved his face into Pickford’s line of sight. “Where is it?”

His mouth got a mean set to it. “I’ll have to show you.”

Ken released Chuck and backed away. Pickford led us into the bathroom. A claw foot tub had been crammed into the tiny room, its enamel surface chipped and pitted with rust. The toilet lid was up, its yellow contents stinking. The slimeball couldn’t even flush his own toilet.

Some baby blue fabric had been glued in a ruffle to the rim of the sink, concealing the plumbing beneath it. Pickford went to his knees and pulled back the drape where it split in front.

“I looked in there,” Ken said.

His head half under the sink, Pickford reached around behind it, into the space between the back of the sink and the wall. When he emerged, he held a plastic zipper bag with a photo folded inside.

Ken took the zipper bag by a corner and led the way out. “Flush the damn toilet, Pickford.”

In the living room, Ken held up the bag. The photo had been folded so that only the boy in the picture was visible. Pulling out Enrique’s photo, I compared it to the one year-old in the bag. Same eyes and carefree grin. When Ken turned over the bag, I could see what Pickford had folded out of sight – Mrs Lopez and her daughter. I recognized Felicia’s photo from the folder Mrs Martinez had given me.

Proof that Enrique’s grandmother had indeed lived here in Greenville. If Pickford could be believed – and I couldn’t see any reason for him to lie about it – the boy had been on his way here.

Ken planted a hand on Pickford’s shoulder again. “I’m taking you in.”

Pickford turned those grandpa eyes on Ken. “It was just a photo. I still have the frame. I’ll give it back to you.”

“What do the terms of your probation say about pictures of unrelated children in your possession?” Ken asked, giving Pickford’s shoulder a shake.

Pickford flapped his mouth a couple times in indignant silence, then clamped it shut. Ken marched him from the apartment.

We tramped back down the stairs, Pickford whining and moaning and groaning as we went. While Ken packed Chuck away in the Explorer, I returned to my Escort. Bending over the hood, I stretched again in a vain attempt to remove the twelve-inch hunting knife someone had shoved up into my leg.

As Ken approached, I gave up on the effort. “Enrique’s probably safe and sound with his grandmother.”

“Maybe.”

I jammed my fingers into my hair, trying to remember if I’d brushed it that morning. “And James is just a runaway. If he’s not dead already, he’ll make his way home someday.”

“Could be.”

I tried to cling to the fairy tale. “There’s no crime in me choosing to believe that.”

“Right,” Ken agreed.

I took a stab in the dark. “You wouldn’t happen to know if anyone in town owns an early 80s Volvo sedan?”

Ken’s gaze narrowed at the off the wall question. “Have a hankering to own a Volvo?”

“That’s the kind of car Andros at the café thinks he saw James in.”

Ken gave it some thought. “I see Volvos around here all the time, but mostly late model. I can’t say I’ve noticed one that old.”

“Damn.” I rubbed my temples where a throbbing beat in time to the ache in my leg. “I’m going to lose three new clients if I don’t get back. They’ll get tired of waiting and find another private investigator.”

“Then go home,” Ken said.

He wasn’t even going to try to talk me out of it? I opened my car door. “See you around.” I sat abruptly, my left leg too wracked with pain for a graceful descent.

Ken blocked me from shutting the door. “Stay one more night. You can get an early start in the morning.”

I peered up at him. “Stay with you?”

“At the hotel, in your car… I don’t give a damn.” He looked away, maybe to search for some patience. “There’s a benefit dance tonight at the community center for the Thompsons. To raise funeral expenses.”

“Have they found a body?” I would have thought he’d tell me if they had.

“Not yet. But he’s dead. Drowned. That’s a near certainty.”

If I stayed, I could evaluate the data I’d gathered so far, see what ProSpy could tell me. Investigate the fire connection further. “You know I can’t dance.”

“Then come and watch me make a fool of myself.”

That notion held some appeal. Also, with everyone in town likely attending, maybe the owner of the Volvo would show up. “I could stay another night. Today’s shot anyway.”

“I’ll pick you up at eight.” He let go of the door and walked to his Explorer.

I felt a little suckered, not so much by Ken as by my own demons. Bad enough that guilt at the lousy results in the search for James and Enrique goaded me into staying. The irresistible compulsion to follow the trail of arson had its hooks in me as well.

The impulse to save the boys was a human enough inclination – I’d let their identities bore into me too deep to easily let go of them. But I trod on thin ice by giving in to my fascination with fire.

At least Tommy, lurking as usual in the back of my mind, wasn’t snickering at me. That would have been enough to shatter the camel’s back.