After this, she wrote:
She tried to picture Chuck Lehman walking up the road looking for Jessica and Cary, holding a frying pan.
The phone interrupted her thoughts.
“Laura, could you come by my office for a minute?” Lieutenant Galaz asked when she answered. “Any time in the next ten minutes.”
Laura realized this was the first time she’d seen the inside of Lieutenant Galaz’s office since he’d been here.
A big man sat in the leather chair closest to Galaz’s desk. He gave the impression of toughness; blond butch cut, muscles encased in fat under a Big and Tall navy sports coat. The ubiquitous cop mustache, ginger-gray. Square, gold-rimmed glasses tinted rose that went with his square face. One black-loafered ankle rested on his knee. He did not get up when she entered the room.
Galaz, seated at his massive cherrywood desk, did rise. His smile inclusive, as if he shared a joke with her.
“Laura, glad you could make it. This is Mickey Harmon, with Dynever Security. He’s a twenty-year veteran with TPD. We go way back—grew up together.”
Laura nodded to Harmon.
“Sit down, sit down.” Galaz motioned Laura to the other burgundy leather chair. Watching her with interest. As she did so, she thought how different this office looked from that of the previous owner, Larry Tuttle, who had occupied this office for eleven years. The bank of fluorescent lights had morphed into softer, more flattering light. The second-hand furniture, a lot of it cheap office stuff, had been replaced by a thick oriental carpet, cherrywood, and leather. A bookshelf full of books on DPS rules and procedures, one whole shelf devoted to criminal profiling and forensic procedures—not so different from her own library. But the biggest change was on the walls—three nature photos, blown-up big. One of them was a close-up of a hummingbird in mid-flight. The other two were spiders blown up into monsters: A black widow in a glistening web, its eyes magnified to the size of peas; a giant, hairy wolf spider against a shimmering backdrop of green.
Galaz followed her gaze. “Ah, you noticed my photos. It’s a hobby of mine. Well, more of a passion.” He pushed an Arizona Highways magazine across his desk. “Finally made the big time. Page fifteen.”
Laura dutifully turned to the photo spread: More spiders and a scorpion or two.
“Very impressive, sir.”
His smile was quick, as if he were expecting the compliment.
“I called you in here to see how the case was going. Is it true we’re close to an arrest?”
“We’re in the process of collecting evidence now. We’re hoping the forensics on the computer will pan out.”
“But the lipstick with the prints on it? That’s pretty solid?”
“The lipstick had her prints on it. It was found in his bedroom.”
Galaz frowned. “I’m glad you’re taking your time and not rushing to judgment. You remember Walter Bush.”
Walter Bush was a local businessman who had been arrested for a series of burglaries based on one witness’s identification. He was eventually cleared, but not before he attempted suicide in his jail cell. A lawsuit was pending.
Galaz leaned back, hands clasped behind his head. “Laura here is one of the best investigators we’ve got. You remember the Judd murders—guy murdered his whole family? Laura was the one who cracked it. She’s like a pit bull. Grabs on and won’t let go.”
Laura mentally squirmed.
“We’ve been having a little disagreement on what kind of killer this is,” Galaz said. “Mickey’s convinced he’s white, but I’d like him to think outside the box a little bit.” He smiled and spread his hands. “You know—embrace diversity.”
Laura said, “The majority of these offenders are white—“
“What did I tell you?” Mickey said, winking at her.
Laura added, “But it’s a mistake to rule out any one race. Even though there are very few black or Hispanic offenders, I think there will be more as—“
Galaz turned to Mickey, his grin triumphant. “You see, Mickey? She agrees with me. Even though minorities are under-represented, culturally we’re catching up. More of us are joining the ranks of the middle class, are better- educated, we’re succumbing to the same pressures that the average white guy has. We’re developing a taste for it.”
Laura said nothing. It was tantamount to saying how great it was that women were catching up and passing men in lung cancer statistics.
“All I’m saying, Mickey, is it could be anybody,” Galaz said. “We don’t want to limit our options.”
“I agree,” Laura said. “But likely he is Caucasian.” Hoping the lieutenant wouldn’t be insulted in some weird way.
“Oh, I’m sure he is. We were talking theoretically.” Galaz rolled a Mont Blanc pen in his long, tapered fingers. “I understand there’s an Internet connection to this? You think the perp got to this girl on the Internet?”
