He told her he was seventeen and would be a freshman in college this fall, premed. His parents had money, but he “wanted to earn his way through college,” so he worked two jobs. He described how beautiful Colorado was and how much fun it would be, just the two of them, camping out under the pines and falling in love.
“We need to get hold of Colorado law enforcement,” Laura said. “It sounds like he knows these places. He might have had another girl there.”
Victor leaned over her. “Durango, Mesa Verde, Ouray, Grand Junction, Glenwood Springs—I have a cousin who lives in Colorado. Most of those towns are on the same highway.”
“He must have passed through.” But when? She knew he had been in Indio five months ago.
“He really did take his show on the road,” Victor said.
Buddy opened up the jpeg photo of “James” standing in front of the blue Z4, arms crossed.
“Only you and Duffy knew about this?”
“Yes.”
“If you had this picture, why did you concentrate on Lehman?”
“You were the one who bird-dogged him, remember?”
“Yes. But I didn’t have this.” She motioned to the computer screen.
He shrugged. “I told you. I thought they were two different cases—“
“Bullshit.” Victor.
Buddy shot Victor a venomous look. “I did look for him. So did Duffy. We must have stopped a dozen of those blue Z4s.”
“We could have all been looking for him,” Laura said.
Buddy Holland had gotten back his equilibrium, and blame bounced off him. “But that wouldn’t have done us much good, would it?” He tapped the screen, the photograph of Peter Dorrance. “Because it wasn’t him.”
48
As Musicman drove the last block toward the El Rancho, his mind turned to the problem of Summer. He was angry with himself for treating her the way he did. Now he’d need to woo her all over again.
A street vendor had set up shop in an empty lot on the corner of the Benson Highway and Palo Verde. On an impulse, Musicman pulled into the lot. Under a parachute-type awning, an old man in a guayaberra shirt sat behind a glass case of cheap-looking jewelry on velvet.
All his girls had loved trinkets. Of course, that was before they saw him. That was always a shock. They were always willing to accept gifts from a good-looking guy like Dorrance, but they turned their nose up at him.
He bought a pretty choker, the thin strand of silver almost liquid in the glaring sunlight. Little beads of turquoise were threaded on at intervals. He drove the rest of the way with a smile on his face.
As he switched on his blinker to make the turn into the El Rancho Trailer Court, he felt a sudden premonition. He’d learned to trust his instincts, so he flicked off the blinker and continued driving on to the next block. He turned there and turned left again, coming up behind the trailer court.
He’d been right.
From this angle he could see the revolving lights of a cop car.
Feast or famine, DPS intelligence analyst Charlie Specter thought as he got himself a cup of coffee and sat back down at the computer. Tips from law enforcement entities throughout the state had come in rapidly at first, then slowed to a trickle, followed by another onslaught. Like turning a faucet on and off. Right now was a down-time.
He checked his watch. Another thirty minutes or so had gone by since the last time he checked his e-mail.
Laura Cardinal had made sure that Charlie was specifically named in the subpoena to Lundy’s Internet server. The messages that Lundy sent and received would be trapped at the server and then sent on to Lundy. After it had been sent to Lundy, an “admin copy” would be sent on directly to Charlie. Along with the text of the e-mail would be a header showing the date and time of the e-mail, as well as the area code and phone number.
He took a sip of coffee and logged on.
Bingo! There was the e-mail address from Lundy’s ISP log: musicman2@msn.com The e-mail was from darkmoondancer@livewire.net.
Time sent: 1:57 a.m. Time received: 10:43 a.m.
Lundy’s ISP had a Tucson area code. He was still in Tucson—a 628 exchange.
Specter called the 628 number. Familiar music came on—Tom Bodette inviting the caller to stay at Motel 6.
He looked up Motel 6 and found several. One of them had the 628 exchange.
He turned the corner and walked to Laura’s desk. “How’s this?” he said. “I know where your bad guy was, up to an hour ago.”
Get a grip, Musicman told himself. There’s no way she could have gotten out of that motor home. No way anyone could have heard her.
He parked the car by the side of the road, got out, and trotted across the patch of desert toward the chain link fence that bordered the park. The fence was woven with dried-out yellow plastic, so it was hard to see, but he could hear the yelling. It sounded like a drunk male, very angry.
He snuck up to the fence and peered through a hole in the plastic.
