“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.
He had not done much traveling lately, although he had moved ninety miles to the north. Tucson was an easy town to disappear in. He had melted right into the Tucson melting pot. He was careful, though, staying close to the freeway in a Motel 6, only venturing out of the neighborhood to a UPS Store to pick up the money Dark Moondancer had sent him.
He was in the Motel 6 now, doing what he loved best—trolling the net. But even that paled in comparison to what was on his mind: the e-mail from LVRGRL@livewire.com.
Intrigued, he’d opened it—and knew right away it was her.
She told him what happened—how her parents had discovered the camera and jewelry he’d sent her and demanded to know where she got them. She’d refused to tell, and her father, the son-of-a-bitch, took away her computer privileges.
But his girl had spunk. It took her awhile, but she managed to talk her mother into letting her use her computer for school, and immediately she set up a new e-mail account.
Kids these days.
Reading that, Musicman couldn’t help experiencing a tiny kernel of hope.
He had to be sure, though.
He went through all his CRZYGRL12 messages, starting with the most recent and going backward. He read the messages which had lured him to Bisbee, messages he now knew were false:
A lie.
Lie, lie, lie.
