the photograph.
She got out of the car and walked up the road for a closer look. Pale yellow siding, white trim, a red metal roof, widow’s walk. She recognized the steps to one side, the palmetto, and the garage under the house.
What clinched it was the sports car: a blue BMW Z4.
The neighbor must be some nice guy to let an out-of-work actor pose with his car.
Or maybe Peter had waited for the owner to leave, and then had his photo session. Laura glanced at Bennies at the Beach, approximately fifty yards up the road. Every day Peter Dorrance came to work, he would have driven by this house.
She revised her notion that the house was a vacation rental; the publicity photos were at least five months old, yet the Z4 was still here. She debated talking to the owner, but decided that she would talk to Dorrance first.
The sky was turning sherbet colors—flamingo pink, orange, lemon—as she drove the rest of the way to Bennies.
Bennies was a Parrothead paradise. Fish nets hanging from plank walls, sawdust on the floor, middle-aged men in loud Hawaiian shirts. The noisy babble rose to the rafters. A sign above the bar: Oysters - Half Dozen for a Dollar. Exotic-sounding drink specials with names like “Banshee Breeze” written in colored chalk on a blackboard.
A waitress in a white dress shirt and black trousers whipped by, holding a huge tray overflowing with colorful food, making Laura hungry. She pressed her way through the crowd to the bar and yelled over the music until the bartender understood. He pointed to a tall young man with shoulder-length black hair.
Laura waited for Dorrance to finish taking his order and stood in his path. He smiled absently at her.
“Mr. Dorrance?” she asked.
“Yes. Hi. I’ll be right with you.” He expertly side-stepped her and headed for the kitchen. Laura couldn’t follow him—the way he threaded through the crowd could have made him a star on the football field.
She waited at the kitchen entrance. “Mr. Dorrance. I need to talk to you.” She held up her shield.
“Department of Public Safety? What’s that?”
She found herself shouting. “An Arizona law enforcement agency.” She watched him carefully, but saw only confusion. “Is there a place we can talk?”
He looked around doubtfully. Handsome, almost pretty. His hair was thick and slightly frizzy from the humidity. Startled blue eyes, heavy brows, cleft chin, full lips. “A twelve-top just sat down. Can you wait until I get a moment?”
She waited by the bar, watching him in action, tried to picture him picking up a young girl, keeping her with him, dressing her up.
Peter Dorrance was a waiter who lived in a crappy apartment because he couldn’t afford to live on the island where he worked. Even used motor homes cost in the tens of thousands of dollars, especially the long one Mrs. Bonney had described. Peter Dorrance didn’t seem like the kind of guy who could afford that.
Laura stepped up to the bar and caught the bartender’s eye. He made it over eventually and slapped a cocktail napkin down on the bar. “What’ll it be?”
“I’d like to speak to the manager.” She showed him her shield.
A few minutes later, a middle-aged man in a knit shirt and khakis appeared at her elbow. He was solid looking, with dark hair and a face hewn by the wind and sun. “I’m Buddy Gill,” he said. “You were asking for me?”
“Could we go to your office?”
He assessed her, then turned on his heel. “Come on,” he said over his shoulder. He led her to a small room dominated by a Maritime clock of polished brass and teak, a swordfish mounted on the wall, and photos of a woman and four blond boys. He sat down behind his desk in the only chair. He swiveled back and forth, staring at her.
“Eric said you’re a cop?”
“I’m a detective with DPS, the Arizona state agency. I need to know if Peter Dorrance worked here last week.”
He considered her for a moment, then reached into a side drawer of his desk and dropped a schedule on the table for her to see.
“According to this, he was scheduled for four days?”
“That’s right. Tuesday through Friday.”
“What about the week before?”
He produced that schedule, too. Laura saw immediately that Dorrance had worked both Friday and Saturday nights. Friday was the day Jessica was kidnapped and killed.
“This is penciled in. He actually worked these days?”
“I remember him being here.”
She stifled her disappointment. Someone must have used Dorrance’s picture. All this way, and anyone could have picked his picture up off the Internet.
“What’s this about?”
“He’s an investigative lead—a possible witness to a crime committed in Arizona.”
“How could he witness a crime there if he was here?”
“He couldn’t,” she said. She pushed open the door and walked back out into the crowd.
Back in the bar, Laura saw Peter Dorrance was coming her way, a big friendly grin on his face. When he got
