The sun was out when he woke up. No cage, not anymore. Cops were interviewing kids, forging links to Kevin Wilcox. The arms that had beckoned in his subconscious had been satisfied.
Digging for Richie Fernandez, though, still beckoned.
Glet’s cell phone sent him to voicemail. He left his name and number and called the sheriff’s department. ‘Deputy Glet’s not in,’ the operator said, adding, ‘It’s Saturday.’
Saturday. Another Saturday. The second since the Graves girls were found.
‘Sheriff Lehman, then,’ Rigg said.
He was put right through, because Lehman couldn’t afford to be known for taking a Saturday off, not with the murders of four girls remaining unsolved, and because Lehman needed something from Rigg about the latest yellow card.
‘It would help if you were precise about how you got the card,’ Lehman said.
‘I leave my car open.’
‘You lie.’
‘Did you get anything off the card?’
‘Nothing; no prints. Nothing off the Ziplocs either; thought they must be your bags.’
Like last time, he’d switched Carlotta’s for new ones. ‘They are. I used gloves.’
Lehman clicked off.
Rigg called ATF and was told Deputy Glet was unavailable. He asked if that meant Glet was in. He was told it simply meant Glet was unavailable. He took that to mean that Glet was there. He drove downtown.
‘Jerome Glet?’ Rigg asked at the desk.
The guard checked his sheet. ‘Unavailable.’
‘Does that mean he’s here?’
‘That means he’s unavailable.’
‘Is Agent Till unavailable, too?’
‘Name?’
‘Milo Rigg.’
The guard shrugged, made a call. Rigg expected the dust – it was Saturday, as had been pointed out to him several times already – but the desk man surprised him. ‘Agent Till will be down in a minute.’
He wasn’t. Agent Till took a full half-hour to come down in the elevator. He hadn’t used the thirty-minute delay to spruce up. Even though it was a Saturday, he was wearing a brown suit and brown tie – perhaps the same suit and tie that he’d worn to the presser a few days earlier. His white shirt looked to have been changed, though today’s seemed to be more yellowed than the one he’d sported the last time.
‘The infamous Milo Rigg,’ Till said, not bothering to extend his hand. He motioned to a cement bench against a blank cement wall. ‘What brings you here on a weekend?’
‘Jerome Glet’s investigation.’ He wanted no such thing. He’d come to breathe on Glet to make sure he made the call he’d asked him to make.
‘Here’s the update: we are progressing.’
‘On your gun case?’
‘That’s the only case that officially interests the ATF.’
‘You didn’t come down from your office just to tell me that.’
‘How can I locate Glet?’ Till asked.
‘He’s not here?’
Till shook his head.
‘Glet can be elusive,’ Rigg said. ‘I had to resort to coming down here in hopes of finding him.’
‘We scheduled an important status meeting on Wilcox for this morning, one that Glet would be sure to attend. He did not show up. I assumed illness, and had our secretary call his office and his cell phone. No answer, either one. When I was told you were here, looking for him, I tried his cell phone and his office again. Still no luck. Glet’s not one to skip a status meeting on his own prime suspect, even on a weekend.’
‘He’s working other cases, he’s fond of saying,’ Rigg said.
‘He could still answer his cell phone.’
‘Glet say anything about those other cases he’s working?’
‘You’d have to ask him about that.’ Till stood up. ‘Let me know when you find him.’
‘Best you phone before you knock,’ the ever-vigilant old crone next door said. Despite the cold, she’d stepped out from behind her weathered wood door.
Rigg stopped at the base of Glet’s front steps. ‘Why?’
‘Remember the last time you were here, you asked if Jerome had a sweetie?’
‘Yes.’
‘Remember I laughed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he might have got someone,’ she said.
‘You know this?’
‘Someone came around last night. Jerome, he don’t get visitors on account of his personality. Except last night. Someone came at nine o’clock, right up his steps to ring the bell.’
‘Man or woman?’
‘Couldn’t tell. Long coat, hood or big collar or something. Could have been a man, could have been a woman. An escort whore, maybe. Even that slob must have needs.’
‘You just told me to call him first. You’re telling me the visitor is still in there?’
‘I didn’t see anybody leave.’
‘When did you go to bed?’
‘Maybe later than them,’ she cackled.
Rigg climbed the steps, rang the bell, and braced himself for the horror of Glet with a cigar, in a robe, perhaps with lipstick smeared on his cheeks and bite marks on the folds of his neck.
There was no answer.
He rang again. Still no answer.
He went through the gangway between the two bungalows, to the garage at the alley. He wiped the filthy window clean enough to see Glet’s black county car parked inside.
The door to the enclosed wood rear porch was unlocked. He went up the steps, went in and crossed to knock on the kitchen door. Hearing nothing, he tried the knob. It turned easily. He stepped inside.
‘Jerome?’ he called out. ‘It’s me, Rigg.’
The kitchen was a mess. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink, a box of bran flakes sat on a porcelain-topped table next to a bowl of dried spaghetti.
‘Jerome, damn it – it’s me, Milo Rigg,’ he yelled.
The house gave up no response.
A back bedroom opened off the kitchen. It was furnished as an office with a yellow metal desk topped with plastic fake woodgrain, a black four-drawer file cabinet and a brown fabric desk chair that leaned forty-five degrees to the right.
Rigg stepped back into the kitchen. ‘Glet!’ he shouted, but, again, there was no response.
The dining room was empty – no table, no chairs, no chest for good dishes. Another bedroom opened off it. It held an old dresser and a scratched nightstand. A three-year-old calendar from a bank was tacked to the wall. There was no bed. Probably Glet had gotten what furniture was in there for free.
Rigg walked into the front parlor.
And found Jerome Glet.