Clean Burn (22 page)

His lower lip trembled like a remorseful little boy’s. “Please. Can’t you just take it, throw it away?”

“Help me out here,” I said, implying we’d scratch each other’s backs. I showed Beck James’s and Enrique’s photos. “Have you seen these two around?”

He looked at them sidelong, as if the temptation to stray would be too strong viewing them straight on. “No.”

I stuck them back in his field of view. “You sure?”

He gave the two pictures another quick once-over. Recognition lit in his face. He gave me a wary look as if he was afraid I was trying to trick him.

“Maybe...” He reached for James’s photo.

Remembering Pickford’s sick delight at touching the picture of Enrique, I held James’s slightly out of reach. “What?”

Beck shook his head. “Probably not the same kid.”

“Tell me anyway,” I pressed.

He glanced down at James’s photo again, then up at me. “I was fly fishing on the river late one afternoon. Fishing helps me think. Keeps my mind off... You know, things.”

I tamped down my impatience. “So while you were communing with nature, what did you see?”

“I saw someone running through the trees on the other side of the river. It was such a quick glimpse, I thought I was seeing things. But then I heard someone yelling for him to stop.”

“Did he look like this kid?”

“I told you, I just saw him a couple of seconds. But it could have been a black kid.”

A chill trickled down my spine. “When was this?”

“About the time I started working at the Hangman’s Tavern. So it would have had to be three or four months ago.”

It fit the damn time frame. “Where on the river?”

He shrugged. “Maybe ten miles out of town. A quarter mile or so past the big turnout with the washed out stone bridge. There’s a tree down in the river upstream of there. A good spot for fishing.”

“An oak tree? Pulled up by the roots, maybe three feet or so in diameter?”

His head bobbed in agreement. “That’s the one.”

The same tree where I found Brandon’s glasses. Maybe. Or maybe Beck was making up the whole thing to make me happy. “So the kid’s running, people are screaming at him, it didn’t cross your mind to do anything about it?”

“When it comes to kids, I try to mind my own business. Keeps me out of trouble.”

I could see his point, but if it
was
James running for his life, it made me sick that Beck had done nothing. “You work at Hangman’s Tavern.”

“His gaze grew wary. “You won’t tell my boss–”

“You get your parole revoked, it won’t matter,” I told him. “Back at the end of December, do you remember a man with a heavy beard and long hair coming into the bar?”

He stared at me blankly a moment, then recognition lit his face. “The night Sondra set the dumpster on fire? The guy said his kid was sick and he needed baby aspirin.”

“Did you see the baby? Or some other kids in the car?”

He shook his head. “I told you, I stay away from kids.”

“Yeah, yeah, keeps you out of trouble.” But he’d confirmed for me that James’s kidnapper had been at the bar.

Ken’s boot steps on the stairs signaled his return. “His story checks out.” He ducked into the bedroom and returned with Beck’s treasure box. “I’ll be talking to your parole officer.”

As we were about to walk out, another thought struck me. “If you heard anything about that boy in Santa Rosa, you’d tell the sheriff, wouldn’t you, Paul?”

His eyes grew to saucer size. “I, uh... I don’t...” Beck didn’t do innocence well.

“I’m sure your parole doesn’t allow you to surf the internet,” I reminded him, “but we know you’ve been down to the library. I’m betting you know about the request for a boy in Santa Rosa.” I could see from his reaction he knew exactly what I was talking about. “Has that request been fulfilled?”

“N-n-no.” His Adam’s apple bounced.

Ken approached Beck, closing the distance between them to inches. “Stay off the computer, Mr Beck. Next time the librarian sees you on it, she’ll call me.”

Having scared the crap out of Beck, Ken walked with me to my Escort. “Sister said he was there the last three days.”

“How do you know she’s not lying for him?”

“She referred to him several times as ‘my creepy pervert brother.’” He opened the car door for me.

“He confirmed he saw the shaggy-haired guy at the tavern. He also gave me a story about seeing a kid out in the woods,” I told Ken. “Close to where Brandon went in, but on the other side of the river.”

“There’s maybe a half-dozen houses out there on a couple thousand acres of BLM land. What the hell would James be doing in such a remote location?”

“Someone took him there.” Likely to kill him. I couldn’t think of any other reason.

I swung into the Escort, my leg twinging. “You can’t drive out there, take a look? It sounds like it’s the same place where the fire was set, the one that threw the dogs off.”

He looked at me as if I was a loon. “I could if there were roads to drive on and the manpower to search. Or I could ask Sergeant Russell to deploy a mounted SAR team. But you want to be the one to articulate to him what your basis is for that wild-ass goose chase?”

He was right, but it didn’t make me any happier about it. I had one iffy witness of questionable character telling me that
maybe
he saw someone and
maybe
it was the kid I was looking for.

“Besides,” Ken said, “I thought you were leaving.”

Truly, I had all the data I needed. Any further investigation I could do from home in my spare time. If I came up with any solid leads, I could let Ken know.

I shoved my key in the ignition. “I will, as soon as I talk to Pickford again. Turns out he installed Mrs Lopez’s television.”

“I’ll follow you,” Ken said, swinging the door shut so I couldn’t argue.

I pulled out of the mobile home park, Ken on my tail, Tommy occupying my imagination. His sorrowful mug kept me company all the way to Pickford’s place.

Knowing I had to face the stairs again leading up to Grandpa Chuck’s, I made Ken wait for me while I did some calf stretches, my hands against the hood of the Explorer like a perp about to be searched. Ken took in every unsightly grimace and whimper of pain, never once offering up his services as a masseur. Obviously there was a cruel streak buried somewhere deep inside him.

My exertions put me in a nasty mood by the time I dragged myself up to the third floor. Pickford’s grandpa smile when he answered the door polished up my crappy disposition. His opening remark, “Good to see you again, Sheriff. Miss,” added the finishing touch.

I stiff-armed him backward into his living room, taking great satisfaction in the way he stumbled over an ottoman and fell on his butt. The son of a bitch just gave me a mournful smile, as if he didn’t understand why anyone would be pissed at him. Coming up beside me, Ken didn’t say a word about my rough handling.

I wrenched Pickford to his feet and shoved him down onto the ottoman. “Let’s talk about Mrs Lopez.”

He gave me a soulful look. “There’s no need to be rough. I’m glad to tell you what I know.”

“You installed her television and Blu-Ray. Did you see the boy there?”

He shook his head, brow furrowed. “What boy?”

Ken stepped in, a friendly hand on Pickford’s shoulder. “The Hispanic boy in the photo she showed you the other day.”

As if he’d only just remembered, Pickford’s face lit with recognition. “I do remember now. The little boy that’s missing.”

I leaned over, level with his face. “Where is he? Have you got him somewhere?”

“No!” His eyes widened, just a trace of fear flickering through them. “I never actually saw the boy. I only saw his picture.”

Disappointment nibbled at me. “At Mrs Lopez’s?”

He nodded. “She had it up on the wall. Alongside a few baby pictures.”

“Any sign that the boy was there?” Ken asked. “Toys strewn around? Kids’ books on the table, anything like that?”

“Not that I saw.” He locked his fingers together and rocked forward and back. “I was just there to do a job. I only noticed the pictures because they were on the wall above where I put the TV.”

Yeah, right. His wandering gaze likely zeroed right in on Enrique’s picture. “I bet you asked about him.”

“I was just trying to be friendly.” Chuck smiled, blue eyes all but twinkling. I wanted to rip away his kind facade, expose the evil behind it. “She was glad for the opportunity to talk about her grandson. She said he was three years old and he’d be coming to live with her soon so her daughter could get back on her feet.”

“Did she say when he’d be coming?” I asked.

Rubbing his chin, he made a show of trying to remember. “I don’t recall her mentioning when. Soon was all she said. She showed me the room she had set aside for him.”

Ken dug his fingers in a little deeper. “You had no business going into his bedroom.”

Pickford tried to wriggle out of Ken’s grip. “I told you. I was only being friendly. She offered to show me.”

No doubt after he dropped a few hints. I bet you have a nice room all ready for him, Mrs Lopez. The thought of him sniffing around the little boy’s room made me want to lop his head right off his shoulders.

Swallowing back my disgust, I got nose to nose with him. “I’m thinking Enrique
was
there. Maybe you were so friendly that day, Mrs Lopez invited you to come back. Maybe you even got to babysit the little tyke.”

“No. I’m telling you I never saw him.”

“And while you were alone with Enrique, you did what you do best. You showed him how much you really liked him. Didn’t you, Grandpa?”

“Damn it, I never saw the boy. He wasn’t living there yet.”

I wasn’t even sure what I was driving at, what I was hoping to get from Pickford. But I kept at him. “I bet you were disappointed, seeing all those pictures, hearing Mrs Lopez talk about her sweet little grandson. You were just aching to get your hands on him, weren’t you?” Remembering Beck’s stash, inspiration struck. “You took a souvenir instead, didn’t you? What did you take home that day, Grandpa?”

Now his blue eyes nearly goggled right out of his head. “What do you mean?” He choked out the words.

I angled a glance up at Ken. “Where is it, Pickford? Where’d you hide it so the sheriff couldn’t find it?”

He squirmed against Ken’s tight hold as if the miniscule fragment of guilt that he still harbored inside had broken loose and was worming its way through his body. His gaze shifted away from mine. “I wasn’t hiding it. I was just keeping it safe.”

Ken moved his face into Pickford’s line of sight. “Where is it?”

His mouth got a mean set to it. “I’ll have to show you.”

Ken released Chuck and backed away. Pickford led us into the bathroom. A claw foot tub had been crammed into the tiny room, its enamel surface chipped and pitted with rust. The toilet lid was up, its yellow contents stinking. The slimeball couldn’t even flush his own toilet.

Some baby blue fabric had been glued in a ruffle to the rim of the sink, concealing the plumbing beneath it. Pickford went to his knees and pulled back the drape where it split in front.

“I looked in there,” Ken said.

His head half under the sink, Pickford reached around behind it, into the space between the back of the sink and the wall. When he emerged, he held a plastic zipper bag with a photo folded inside.

Ken took the zipper bag by a corner and led the way out. “Flush the damn toilet, Pickford.”

In the living room, Ken held up the bag. The photo had been folded so that only the boy in the picture was visible. Pulling out Enrique’s photo, I compared it to the one year-old in the bag. Same eyes and carefree grin. When Ken turned over the bag, I could see what Pickford had folded out of sight – Mrs Lopez and her daughter. I recognized Felicia’s photo from the folder Mrs Martinez had given me.

Proof that Enrique’s grandmother had indeed lived here in Greenville. If Pickford could be believed – and I couldn’t see any reason for him to lie about it – the boy had been on his way here.

Ken planted a hand on Pickford’s shoulder again. “I’m taking you in.”

Pickford turned those grandpa eyes on Ken. “It was just a photo. I still have the frame. I’ll give it back to you.”

“What do the terms of your probation say about pictures of unrelated children in your possession?” Ken asked, giving Pickford’s shoulder a shake.

Pickford flapped his mouth a couple times in indignant silence, then clamped it shut. Ken marched him from the apartment.

We tramped back down the stairs, Pickford whining and moaning and groaning as we went. While Ken packed Chuck away in the Explorer, I returned to my Escort. Bending over the hood, I stretched again in a vain attempt to remove the twelve-inch hunting knife someone had shoved up into my leg.

As Ken approached, I gave up on the effort. “Enrique’s probably safe and sound with his grandmother.”

“Maybe.”

I jammed my fingers into my hair, trying to remember if I’d brushed it that morning. “And James is just a runaway. If he’s not dead already, he’ll make his way home someday.”

“Could be.”

I tried to cling to the fairy tale. “There’s no crime in me choosing to believe that.”

“Right,” Ken agreed.

I took a stab in the dark. “You wouldn’t happen to know if anyone in town owns an early 80s Volvo sedan?”

Ken’s gaze narrowed at the off the wall question. “Have a hankering to own a Volvo?”

“That’s the kind of car Andros at the café thinks he saw James in.”

Ken gave it some thought. “I see Volvos around here all the time, but mostly late model. I can’t say I’ve noticed one that old.”

“Damn.” I rubbed my temples where a throbbing beat in time to the ache in my leg. “I’m going to lose three new clients if I don’t get back. They’ll get tired of waiting and find another private investigator.”

“Then go home,” Ken said.

He wasn’t even going to try to talk me out of it? I opened my car door. “See you around.” I sat abruptly, my left leg too wracked with pain for a graceful descent.

Ken blocked me from shutting the door. “Stay one more night. You can get an early start in the morning.”