night. Her followup call to the customer corroborated his story.
Even though he made dresses and his shop was close to City Park, Laura found it hard to imagine this man killing Cary Statler and overpowering Jessica Parris. His shop was cluttered and dusty; his personal hygiene abominable. She couldn’t picture him scrupulously cleaning up Jessica with an almost scary attention to detail.
This driving back and forth between Bisbee and Tucson was getting old. Laura got some cheese crackers from the vending machine and headed to the squad bay. On the way, she ducked into the bathroom and gave herself a strip wash, using liquid soap from the dispenser and a half dozen small sheets of brown paper towels. It didn’t do much good. Her blouse was wrinkled and she still felt stale. She salved her lips, combed the sweat more evenly through her hair, and decided that was as good as it would get today.
Victor wasn’t at his desk, but he’d left her a copy of his autopsy notes.
It occurred to her that Victor wasn’t around much at all these days.
He seemed to be disconnecting from the case. She knew he was preoccupied with his wife and new daughter, not to mention his four other kids and the mistress everyone knew about but didn’t acknowledge. But it was more than that. He was acting as if the case were already solved and he had moved on.
Victor had always been a lazy investigator, but his charm made up for it. He was a brilliant interviewer and interrogator—had gotten some astounding confessions over the years. On the cases they’d worked together, his laxness in certain aspects of an investigation had never bothered her. She’d picked up the slack without complaint, not because she was a saint—she sure as hell wasn’t—but because she liked to keep her finger on the pulse of every case. She wanted to possess a case, know it up and down and inside out, the car parts on the tarp, so she could pounce down on any piece at any time. For this reason, she liked being teamed with Victor. He never got in her way.
But that had all changed when he went behind her back and set up the search with Sylvia Clegg.
She’d just started reading Victor’s autopsy notes when the phone rang—Doris Bonney returning her call. It took a moment for Laura to place her, the “girl” who worked for the old man on West Boulevard. Doris Bonney sounded much older, sixty at least.
Accustomed to doing two things at once, Laura skimmed the report as she asked Doris Bonney about the previous Friday. “Do you remember what time you left there?”
“Had to be six fifteen, six twenty at the latest.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mr. Toomey eats at five thirty every evening. I have to be across town for a class I’m taking by six thirty.”
“Did you notice anything unusual when you left?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
Laura’s eyes ran down the report. Cause of death: A blow to the head. Well duh.
“Think hard,” she said to Mrs. Bonney. “People walking their dogs, kids, someone driving by?”
Silence. Laura pictured her thinking. Most good citizens tried hard to please. Talking to cops brought out the bright student in them.
“Sorry.” Bonney sounded sincerely disappointed. “It was just like any other night.”
Once more with feeling. “You’re sure? It could be anything out of the ordinary, no matter how insignificant it seems to you.”
Laura said this as she turned to the next page of the report, noting that the object used to kill Cary Statler was described as heavy and flat. There was a portion of Cary’s scalp where the edge of the weapon had made its mark—a curved indentation. In addition, there was trace evidence of fish, oil, salt, and flakes of metal in Cary’s wound. The report concluded that the weapon could have been a frying pan or skillet.
Laura straightened in her chair, all her attention now on Bonney. “Motor home?”
“I thought I was going to be late for class. This big motor home was taking its time trying to turn around. I’m sure it isn’t important, but honestly, that’s the only thing …”
“Are you sure it was that Friday?”
“That’s the night of my pottery class.”
“Can you remember what it looked like?”
“Big. Had to be a mile long. It took him some maneuvering to turn that thing around, let me tell you. There were three other cars waiting. You’d think he’d be more considerate.”
“Do you remember which way he was going?”
“When he finally got turned around? Up to the pass.”
“Out of town?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you remember the color?”
“It was light brown—tan, I’d guess is the better word. I had to sit there staring at it for the longest time. Definitely tan.”
“Did you get a look at the driver?”
“Nope. It was hard to see in—it’s dark up there by six thirty.”
After she hung up, Laura pulled out a pad and wrote.
