Ultimate Thriller Box Set - Crouch Blake (лучшие книги без регистрации txt) 📗

When Laura got back to the Gibson Inn, she checked at the front desk for messages. Victor still hadn’t called back. She called him and got his voice mail. Left her own and paged him, too.

She wondered if Lehman had confessed. There might already be a deal in the works. And here she was in Florida with nothing.

Tilting at windmills.

She looked at her list again.

Alison Burns - similar

Dress patterns – Inspirational Woman

Motor home seen at Brewery Gulch

Motor home seen near primary crime scene

Digital camera, jewelry sent to Alison/Internet connection (?)

CRZYGRL12

The man in the photo—beach house?

Peter Dorrance

Serial killer, organized type?

Differences between Jessica and Alison: period of time kept, age, manner of death

Postmortem vs. antemortem

She had added five items to the list:

Dorrance – J. de Seroux photog

Tire treads at J’s

Linnet Sobek – last seen near oyster bar

J.S. regular at oyster bar

Linnet Sobek looks like Alison and Jessica

Chief Redbone was right: Pretty thin.

De Seroux had no criminal record. He didn’t own a motor home. And as Victor had pointed out, anyone could have downloaded Dorrance’s picture from the Internet.

Laura stared at the picture of de Seroux she had photocopied. The deadness in his eyes didn’t translate to the dark photocopy, or it could be that she had attached too much significance to it. A lot of people looked dull. Her conviction that he was Jessica’s killer was starting to evaporate.

To cheer herself up, she went out and treated herself on her own money to a good dinner. Oysters, crab cakes, and Merlot at the Owl Cafe. The place was small and intimate. The rest of the diners were all couples.

Usually, she wasn’t bothered about dining out alone. But tonight she felt self-conscious, as if people were looking at her. That wasn’t true—one glance at the other diners told her that. They were too concerned with each other.

Maybe that was it. She pictured Tom opposite her, their heads bent together over wine glasses. Pictured them walking out on the marina dock set in a plain of marsh and sawgrass, holding hands and watching the sun set on the water. Or on the porch at the Gibson Inn, listening to the night sounds, making out if no one else was around.

In the king-sized bed.

His presence, the way he looked at her, the quiet way he talked. Never, ever in a hurry. His life just the way he wanted it. Something to be said for that.

Except his life wasn’t exactly the way he wanted or else he wouldn’t want her.

As a cop, she always worked with a partner. Someone to watch her back, an ally. Not being alone …

It always came as a surprise to her that she didn’t have any family. There were relatives back east, people she hardly knew. She doubted they would welcome her intrusion and she didn’t want anything from them. She was used to being alone; only children were, as a rule, self-reliant.

Still, she’d always thought she would find someone. She had thought that Billy Linton would solve all her problems, that he could wipe out the idea of her parents dying by gunshot at close-range. Of course that had not worked. She and Billy didn’t have the stuff to sustain even a normal relationship, let alone one that was that had been banged up from the beginning. Ever since, all she had to show for a personal life was a string of failed relationships.

Now Tom was asking her to give it a try one more time. Living together wasn’t marriage, but it was a commitment. She couldn’t even think about getting married again, but she could think about sharing her house.

She paid her check and walked back to the Inn, decided to prolong the night by having another drink out on the gallery. She walked into the bar, glancing up at Jimmy de Seroux’s publicity photo.

She’d seen him before … well, of course she had. She’d studied that photograph more than a few times in the last two days. But there was something else.

Then it came to her.

Where she had seen him.

32

“What a day,” Victor said when he finally got back to Laura that night. “We really thought he was going to take a plea, but he backed out at the last minute.”

“Lehman? What did he say?”

“Nothing. He demanded to talk to his lawyer in private and that was it, man. Never came back. Is Cruller pissed!”

Roger Cruller was the county attorney.

“I knew—knew—he was going to confess. Why else did Glass call this whole fucking dog-and-pony show? And then, nada.”

Laura wondered about Lehman’s attorney, Barry Glass, who had a reputation for winning big cases. Why had he called the meeting if he didn’t want to work out a deal? Only if Lehman himself got cold feet.

“And the bad thing? We don’t have enough to arrest him at this point. The forensics on the computer could take months. You should hear the lame shit his attorney tried to feed me—like the screenplay? He said it was in the refrigerator because, get this, he wanted to protect it in case there was a fire.”

She let him rant for a while before changing the subject. “Did you run my guy’s name through NCIC?” she asked.

“I’ve been so busy, I must’ve forgot. You still want me to do it? I’ll get to it first—”

“That’s okay, we ran him at the PD here. He doesn’t have a criminal record.”

“Well, I guess that’s it.”

“Maybe not.”

He ignored that. “I have some news you might be interested in. Timmy Judd’s in intensive care. He tried to kill himself today. Drank some drain cleaner. They don’t know how he got it. But you know he’s gotta be suffering.”

Laura thought about Shannon Judd, only seven years old, having the presence of mind to make her way into the crawl space underneath her house—the house she had lived in all her short life—to hide from her own father. The pain and fear she must have experienced as her life drained away along with the blood from two gunshot wounds.

“Hope it destroys his throat, his esophagus, his digestive tract—I hope he gets cancer.”

“He’s feeling it, that’s for sure.”

They were both silent for a moment.

Laura sensed that whatever rift had been between them was healing. She might as well make him even happier. “I’m thinking about coming back soon.”

“Oh?”

“I want to get into his house, but I don’t have enough to get a warrant.”

“Come on, do you really think he’s the one? I’m telling you, Lehman was this close to telling it all.”

Laura mentally shrugged. “I would like you to do one thing for me. The photographs I took at the crime scene that first morning—of all the people hanging out there? Could you FedEX them to me?”

“I came straight home from Bisbee. I’d have to go back to the squad bay to pick them up, then Fed Ex—“

“I know he was there, in Bisbee. I saw him. You did, too.”

“Where?”

“He was the pianist at the Copper Queen Hotel.”

33

MUSICMAN. HOT WHEELS. WARLOCK. SMOOTH TALK. TRAVELER.

It was like having a wardrobe full of costumes. You could change your clothes whenever you felt like it. You just decided what person you wanted to be that day—whatever fit your mood—and donned the name like a favorite shirt or jacket.

His favorite right now was “Traveler,” for a couple of reasons. One, he had always loved the open road, loved to drive. Just pick a route—back road or freeway, it didn’t matter—and follow it. Go where he pleased, always looking for what was beyond the next bend in the road. But the most pertinent connotation of the word “traveler” came from the books the profilers used, those books about people like him. Men who killed—serial killers—had a tendency to go from place to place so they wouldn’t get caught. They were called “travelers,” and he thought this the height of irony to use that for one of his e-mail names. It was a hint, even though no one had ever picked up on it. A clever nod to fair play.