Rage

***

First came a gray felt cloth, the kind used to keep tarnish off silverware. No money under that, but the box was half-full.

Milo removed each object and placed it on the desk.

Nothing that weighed much.

A yellowed Stockton newspaper clipping, seven and a half years old. Local coverage of Troy Turner’s murder in prison. Troy ’s name underlined in red pencil, along with a sentence connecting him to the Malley case. Kristal Malley’s name double underlined.

A pair of woman’s jade drop earrings.

“Any guesses?” he said.

“Maybe Lara’s.”

A black hard-shell eyeglass case. Inside was half a blackened spoon, a cheap lighter, and a crude syringe fashioned from an eyedropper, and a hypodermic needle. Brown gunk soiled the glass. In the red velvet lining of the case, the gold-lettered address of an optometrist on Alvarado.

Under the address, a scrap of paper taped to the inside lid.

Property of Maria Teresa Almedeira.

“Nestor’s mother,” I said. “Nestor swiped it to house his works. After Daney killed him, it became his souvenir.”

Milo reached in the box again and drew out a flimsy knit blouse, royal blue with a horizontal red stripe. Holding it aloft by the sleeves, he checked the label. “Made in Malaysia, size S. This could also be Lara’s.”

I said, “It’s Jane Hannabee’s. She was wearing it the day I met her at the jail. Brand new. Weider was trying to pretty her up.”

“And Daney deprettied her…” He examined the garment closely. “Doesn’t look like any blood.”

“He stabbed her in her sleep. She wouldn’t have worn something new. He wrapped her back up in plastic, rummaged through her stuff, took a souvenir.”

“Okay, if the earrings are Lara’s, maybe her mother can verify… check this out.”

Photocopy of a county document. Application to foster a child.

The ward in question was a sixteen-year-old female named Miranda Melinda Shulte. Drew and Cherish Daney had both signed the papers but they had never been sent in.

“Number seven,” I said.

Milo rubbed his eyes. “There’s no evidence he killed any other girls. Why her, Alex?”

“She’d only been here a week, but Beth Scoggins described her as aggressive, moving in on Beth’s queen-bee status. Daney needs them to be passive. Maybe she asserted herself too much. Or she thought she wanted his attentions, but when the time came, she resisted.”

“Not playing the game,” he said. “There could be a family out there somewhere, wondering.”

Or even worse, there isn’t.

I said, “When we find him, maybe we can learn where he buried her.”

“Love your optimism.” He placed the foster form on the desk. Stared at it. Returned to the box.

Pharmaceutical bubble pack. Nine bubbles, seven of them empty. Two round, white pills, scored diagonally. Stamped “Hoffman” atop the midline, “ 1” below it.

The label on the pack said: Rohypnol, 1 mg (flunitrazepam).

“Party pills,” I said.

Milo said, “Next.”

Out came Rand Duchay’s C.Y.A. I.D. tag. The photo showing Rand looking baffled.

Last, at the bottom, a manila envelope not much larger than a playing card, fastened by a string and eyelet. Milo ’s gloved hands fumbled with the string. He cursed, finally got the string uncoiled. Brought the envelope close to the desk and shook it out carefully.

Out tumbled a tiny bracelet. Square, white plastic cubes strung on a pink thread.

Seven cubes. A letter on each.

K R I S T A L

CHAPTER 43

Like the cement cube, the converted garage had a single window. No larger than the cube, but with only two beds, it felt a lot more spacious.

I said, “Valerie, where did Drew keep his money? It’s important.”

She sat on her bed, I was three feet away in a pink plastic chair.

Real bed, not a bunk. Wood-grain headboard embossed with vines and flowers. Matching chest of drawers with the same embellishment. A threadbare gray rug covered most of the cement floor.

Particle board partitions created a corner bathroom, complete with shower, shampoo, hotel soaps, and lotions still sealed.

A host of stuffed animals on Valerie’s bed. Monica’s bed, across the room, had only a single blue teddy bear.

Clear hierarchy. Lodgings for the preferred ward and her next-in-line. What reason had Drew given Cherish? What had she been thinking?

Valerie’s black hair was shiny-wet. She played with a towel that said Sheraton Universal. Her eyes were pond pebbles.

I said, “In a box? Did he keep his money in a gray metal box?”

The pebbles rounded around the edges as she looked away. Constricted pupils. Her hands danced on her knees.

“We found the box, Valerie, but there was no money in it, so I guess Drew made all that up.”

“No! I saw it.”

“You saw the money?”

She avoided my eyes.

I shrugged. “If you say so.”

“It was there.”

“It’s gone, now.”

“Bitch!”

“You think Cherish took it.”

“She stoled it.”

“It wasn’t hers?”

“We got it! At the nonprofits!”

Fire in her eyes. Devotion. Beth Scoggins had recounted how Daney had turned off after her abortion. It had been days since Valerie’s abortion and she believed Daney still cared.

I said, “Guess Cherish found where he hid it.”

Silence.

“How do you think she found out?”

Shrug.

“No idea at all, Valerie?”

“Cleaning. Prolly.”

“Cleaning where?”

She got up, paced the length of the room, then the periphery. Passed Monica’s bed and tucked in a corner of blanket.

Playing housekeeper.

She circled the room again.

“Cleaning where?” I said. “If we’re going to find your money, we have to know where.”