The Killing Vision

THURSDAY, JULY 12

8:30 AM

Pettus rubbed his temples and leaned back in his chair. Halloran’s reports were spread out on the desk before him, and both sets of photos of the body dumpsite were in his lap. He looked from one pile to the other. His black eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into his brown face the last couple of weeks.

Halloran sat upright. His tongue tasted his lips for any leftover nicotine. He blew out a breath and took the last swallow of cold coffee from his cup. Beside him, Chapman chewed on his thumbnail and bounced his leg.

Pettus plopped the photos down on top of the reports. “I’ll say this, Mike. You’ve got some damned big balls.”

Chapman snorted, then covered it with a cough.

Halloran looked at him, then back at Pettus. “Yeah, so I’ve been told.”

“There’s no way a judge will give us a warrant for the mayor’s house based on what you’ve got. There’s no evidence linking him to the girls. None at all.”

“I know that,” Halloran said. “I just want your permission to talk to him.”

“I don’t know, Mike.” He ran a large hand over his closely-cropped hair. “This department’s been on rocky ground with Carver since his wife got a ticket for parking in a handicapped zone. I’d hate to do anything to piss him off again. He does control our budget, you know.”

Halloran nodded. He liked Pettus, he really did. He was fair, and he was smart. As the first African-American police chief in Cedar Hill, he had dealt with considerable controversy during his tenure. Cedar Hill was by no means a racist community, but many in the town—mostly old-timers—had given Pettus a rough way to go; they apparently didn’t believe Cedar Hill was ready for a black police chief. He had endured everything from indifference to outright hatred. Things had peaked during a city council meeting in which two councilmen (one black, one white) erupted into a fistfight over Pettus’ firing of a white officer. Only after the mayor stepped in and publicly gave his unconditional support for Pettus did things in the city calm down. Halloran could certainly understand why Pettus wished to remain on Carver’s good list.

“How about this,” Chapman said. “We just talk to him about the investigation, how things are going. Kind of feel him out.”

“That’s fine,” Pettus said, “so long as you don’t insinuate anything. You all just remember—we have no evidence linking him to these girls. Nothing.” He looked hard at Halloran. “Be careful.”

Halloran swallowed. “I will.”

Pettus stacked up the reports on the desk. “In the meantime, you said you want another search of those riverbanks. I agree. Let’s go ahead and do it. And I’m going to call in the state for assistance. We need to find something. Anything.”

* * *

10:30 AM

Marla had been in a stew ever since Wade and Derek left for work. Earlier it was easy to keep her mind off of things as the two of them rushed around in their frenzied morning routines. But after Joel picked up Wade and Derek spun out of the driveway toward town, after she sat down in the living room with a second cup of coffee to relax a bit before starting the laundry, after she turned off the Today show because she couldn’t take any more of Savannah Guthrie’s damned perkiness, she had started to brood.

Wade was seeing someone. She knew it. It wasn’t just a one-time fling like he usually had. This was different. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. Was it that girl whose number she had found in Wade’s pocket? Missy? Or was it someone else? And why did she even give a damn? One thing was sure: whoever she was, she had been with Wade last weekend. Wade wasn’t even trying to hide it. He wasn’t even pretending he was out doing something else.

She took a sip of coffee and her gaze fell on the side table. Wade had left his phone. She remembered Joel calling last night, and she wondered if he had ever told Wade about her frantic call Sunday morning. If so, Wade was keeping it a secret—she couldn’t even begin to guess why. Maybe Joel hadn’t said anything to him. But then Joel had seemed angry. Joel had—

Marla set down her cup and picked up the phone. Before she could stop herself, she looked at the call log. Maybe Joel hadn’t called last night. Maybe it was Missy. Or someone else. Her heart pounded, and her hands had begun to shake. 555-4376 . She jotted it down.

That wasn’t Joel. Was it Missy? She couldn’t remember. She hit redial, and as the phone on the other end began to ring, a sharp pain began to throb in her temple.

The call connected. Voice mail. Two girls. Giggling.

“Hi, this is Abby—”

“And Shelley!”

“Please leave a message.” There was more giggling followed by the beep.

Marla disconnected the call. She stared at the phone until tears blurred her vision, then hurled it across the room. It slammed into the wall, leaving a mark.

So which one was he f*cking, Abby or Shelley? Or both? She paced blindly around the room, sobbing, banging her fists against the sides of her head. Damn him! Goddamn him! To think he had been talking to the bitch, right in front of her. What a fool she was, what an idiot. And why was she surprised? Wasn’t it just like him?

Ignoring the tears sliding down her cheeks, she trudged upstairs to the bathroom and grabbed the laundry hamper. She pulled the damp towels from the rack and added them to the pile of dirty clothes, then lugged the basket out across the hall to Derek’s room.

She blew out a disgusted breath. Papers, clothes, CDs, magazines. . . everywhere she looked was a pile of crap. Here was a plate with petrified pizza crusts on it. An empty Butterfinger wrapper peeked out from beneath the dresser. The mini-blinds in the window hung cock-eyed, like a drunk had tried to raise them. She shook her head. Why did she even bother? Why did she even bother living?

She sank to the bed. Fresh tears stung her eyes. One of Derek’s shirts lay rumpled among the sheets. She pulled it to her face and dabbed at her cheeks. The shirt smelled of Derek— Irish Spring soap and Tag body spray and the faint hint of masculine sweat. Her little boy had become a man. She buried her face in the shirt.

She could just take off for somewhere today. It didn’t really matter where. No one would even know she was gone until late this evening, and by then she would be miles away. Wade probably wouldn’t even come looking for her. And her parents most likely wouldn’t give a damn. But Derek. . . she just couldn’t leave Derek. And Derek wouldn’t leave Wade. He still loved and admired his dad; he hadn’t yet learned what an a*shole Wade was.

She wadded up the shirt and tossed it into the laundry basket. Her gaze fell on Derek’s computer in the corner. The screensaver was flashing pictures of bikini-clad models posing and cavorting on a beach. She watched it for a moment, remembering something Derek had shown her once on the internet. The phone number she had jotted down was in her jeans pocket. She pulled it out and stepped over a pile of magazines toward the desk and flopped into the chair. She chewed her lips as the modem connected with a series of squelches and beeps. She hoped she remembered the website Derek had pointed her to. She typed in the address and the page blazed onto the screen. Her shaking fingers keyed the telephone number into the search block, and in thirty seconds she had Abby’s last name. A few more keystrokes and she had a street address.

Now she knew where the bitch lived. She stared at the monitor. A smile had crept onto her lips.

* * *

1:30 PM

God, it was hot.

Halloran had loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt. Sweat was trickling down his neck and pooling in the hollow of his throat. He wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt and parted a clump of tall weeds with the toe of his shoe. Nothing there. He took a gulp from the lukewarm bottle of water in his hand.

All around him other members of the search team—some of them state boys—were carefully combing the riverbanks. They had started at the landing by the park and were working their way upstream on both sides of the river to Caneyville State Park. So far they had come almost a quarter of the ten-mile distance. Several bags of items had been collected—mostly trash—but anything that might link to a suspect, whether it be a candy wrapper or a foam cup, could turn up here.

Across the sluggish water, Chapman’s red head bobbed among the tangled vines and limbs. Chapman’s intensity for the investigation was impressive. Since Sarah Jo’s body had been pulled from the river he had spent every hour at the office going through the evidence, had spent many late evenings looking at photos and following up leads. Halloran couldn’t help feeling proud; he’d trained Chapman after all. He was becoming a good detective, and his drive and conscientiousness were innate traits that couldn’t be learned in a police academy. He would be a natural to head up the whole department someday.

“Lieutenant!” One of the state guys stood in a small clearing. He beckoned Halloran closer and pointed to the ground. “Got something here.”

Halloran climbed up the bank toward the officer. The bank was steep here, and he almost lost his footing in the loose soil.

Atop the knoll was a set of tire tracks. They weren’t fresh, but they couldn’t be more than a couple of days old. The ground had been soft and muddy when they were made, and now the treads were preserved perfectly in the hard dirt.

“Excellent,” Halloran said. “Take an impression and get it to the lab.”

He blew out a breath and took another sip of water. Onward and upward.

* * *

5:05 PM

Derek had just spent eight hours of hell in the kitchen of the Dairy Queen on Fourth Street. He punched his timecard and emerged into the blinding sunlight. It was hotter out here on the asphalt parking lot, but not by much. He hated it here—f*cking hated it. The days were all a massive blur of flipping burgers, mopping floors, and scraping the grill. Half the time he couldn’t remember what he’d done all day, as if he was just a functioning robot.

Today he happened to glance at the front line and spotted his old algebra teacher, Hicks the Prick, at the register. The Prick ordered a grilled chicken sandwich, which had to be cooked special. Derek spit on the meat before he tossed it over the flames. He would have been fired had anyone seen him, but nobody did. Frankly, he didn’t care. If he got fired it might be the best thing to happen to him. But he had to admit, watching The Prick walk away with his tainted sandwich gave him a real feeling of satisfaction.

He jumped into the oven of his car and started it. Godsmack came blaring out of the speakers. Derek put the air conditioner on maximum and sat there with his eyes closed. The hot air blew in his face, and the bass of the music pounded through him, almost like a massage.

When the air finally cooled, Derek popped on his sunglasses and headed down the street toward home. Tonight he was looking forward to watching some TV and just vegging. He was off tomorrow, thank God, and he hoped to catch up on his sleep.

He glanced at the dash and noticed his gas gauge was on empty. F*ck. So much for his last twenty dollars. He wheeled into the Gas-N-Pack on the corner and pumped in what he could. If gas got much higher he’d have to get a horse. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and headed toward the store.

That’s when he saw her. He didn’t know who she was, but four words floated through his mind: “fine piece of ass.” Her angelic face was framed by dark curls that bounced with her step, and as she stepped through the door in front of him, his gaze fell on the mound in the back of her jeans. At the same time, he caught her scent, feminine and clean, and he wondered if he smelled like a sweaty deep fryer.

He moved down one of the aisles of the store and pretended to look at chips and candy bars. She was at the drink fountain filling a cup with ice and Mountain Dew. Another girl—a sista, not nearly as perfect as the angel he was following—came up behind her. “Hi, girl!”

The angel turned and gave her a smile that melted Derek to his core. “Hey!” she said. “I haven’t seen you since last semester. How’d you make out with econ?”

The sista shook her head and waved her hand. “Tell you what, if you hadn’t helped me I’d’ve flunked that class for sure.” She pulled out a cup and began filling it. “So what’re you doing this summer?”

“Taking some classes,” the angel said. “I already took two and now I’m taking two more, and then I can graduate in December and not have to wait ’til the spring.”

The sista shook her head. “You better than I am. Summer classes suck. You still living on campus?”

The angel snapped a lid onto her cup and stabbed it with a straw. “Nope. Shelley and I got an apartment over on Woodside. Nice old place. Big rooms and cheap rent.”

The angel and the sista headed toward the register to pay. They were still chatting, not paying him the least attention. He moved up behind them and watched as they paid and walked out. He flung two tens at the Indian behind the counter and followed the girls into the heat of the lot. He heard them saying goodbye as he reached his car, and when the angel pulled out into the traffic in her Volkswagen Beetle, he was right behind her.

He followed her through several traffic lights and a couple of turns, and when they made a right onto Woodside, he felt his heart start hammering in his chest. He eased off the accelerator and put some distance between them, then slowed to a crawl when the Beetle pulled to the side of the street in front of an old Victorian house. That had to be her apartment building.

He sped up and drove past her just as she was getting out of her car with her drink and a stack of books. She never even looked up at him.

He sat at the stop sign on the corner and watched her in the rearview mirror as she headed toward the building and disappeared. His heart was still pounding, and he wondered how he would ever manage to see her again.

* * *

5:45 PM

Mayor Larry Carver sat down behind his massive desk and motioned for Halloran and Chapman to take the two overstuffed leather chairs opposite him. “So what can I do for you gentlemen? How’s the investigation going?”

“We’re getting a few leads,” Halloran said.

Carver nodded. “Excellent, excellent.”

Halloran took a deep breath. He knew he was going to have to be careful. “I need to ask you something, Mayor.”

Carver shrugged. “Certainly.”

“It’s a bit. . . personal.”

Carver stiffened, though his expression remained neutral. “Yes?”

“We’ve received an anonymous tip that you have a collection of newspaper clippings in your basement. Clippings about the McElvoy case.”

Carver blinked. “What do you mean, ‘anonymous tip?’”

Chapman shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Halloran glanced at him, then met the mayor’s steady gaze. “We’re following up any and all possible leads, no matter how far-fetched they might seem.”

Carver’s eyes narrowed. He looked back and forth between Halloran and Chapman. “Am I being accused of something?”

“No, sir,” Halloran said, holding up his hand.

“Because if I am, you better make damn sure you know who you’re dealing with here.”

“No one’s accusing you of anything,” Halloran said. “We’re simply asking a question.”

Carver leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Yes. I’ve got the clippings. I keep newspaper clippings on anything that could potentially impact the city’s image. It’s part of my job.”

Halloran nodded. “I understand.”

Carver gave him a hard look. “I don’t think you do. You think this is a cushy job? That all I do is go around making speeches and cutting ribbons?”

“No, sir, I—”

“You have no idea what it takes to run a town the size of Cedar Hill.”

“I’m sure I don’t.”

“I have to know everything that goes on in this city. I have to be able to market this town.”

“I get it,” Halloran said. Carver’s face was blossoming red, and Halloran knew he had hit a nerve. “Like I said, we’re just following up on a tip. Surely you must understand that we’ve got to cover all the bases.”

“Sounds like someone’s got too much time on their hands.” Carver stood. “I think it’s time for you leave.”

Halloran blew out a breath. “So I take it you wouldn’t consent to a search of your home.”

“Get out of here before I call your chief and have you both thrown off the force.”

Chapman was already on his feet and out the door. Halloran stood and nodded at Carver. “Have a good evening.”

Chapman was waiting for him in the hall. A smirk played across his lips. “That could have gone better.”

* * *

9:08 P.M.

Joel twisted the cap off his second beer and sank into the recliner. He picked up his phone and stared at it, then set it back on the arm of the chair and took a sip from the bottle. He had told himself he would call Dana, just to make sure everything was still on for tomorrow night, but every time he started to punch in her number, panic seized his gut. He had been struggling with himself for half an hour now and had already drained one beer trying to settle down. But hell, it wasn’t like he went out on dates all the time. This was new territory. New experiences for Joel.

On the television, an old Chuck Norris movie was playing with the sound off. Chuck Norris never had women problems he would bet.

With his heart thudding dully, he took one more drink of beer and keyed in Dana’s number before he could stop himself. And when she answered on the third ring, time seemed to stop. “Hello, Dana?”

“Hi, Joel.” She sounded pleased to hear his voice. “What’s up?”

“Not much. Watching TV. Just got out of the shower.”

“You’re not calling to break our date are you?”

“No!” he said, a little sharper than he meant. “I wanted to make sure we were still on for tomorrow night.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”

He smiled. “I’m looking forward to it, too.”

Later, as he lay in bed, staring into the blackness, he remembered her soft hair and the way her nose crinkled when she smiled, and he found himself thinking he could really fall for this girl. He pictured the two of them going on more dates, actually being a couple. The thought both thrilled and terrified him. A week ago he hadn’t even considered such an idea. Love seemed as likely to find him as a winning lottery ticket. He realized he was smiling.

The passing lights of a car played across the darkness of his bedroom, and as he caught a glimpse of the crack in the ceiling, he again thought of Mars.

(Did you know there were canals on Mars?)

He clutched his head in his hands. He would not think about this. He would not.

(Real Martians?)

His stomach burned with fire. He took a deep breath and forced that night from his mind. Nothing was going to spoil his thoughts of Dana. Especially not that. He closed his eyes and pictured her and soon he was drifting into sleep.