Shut Your Eyes Tight (Dave Gurney, No. 2): A Novel (35 page)

Two minutes later Kline was on the phone, excited as a fly on fresh manure. “What is this? What media explosion?”

“Long story. You have time to talk?”

“How about you give me the one-sentence summary?”

“Imagine a news story that starts like this: ‘Police and DA clueless as serial murderer abducts Mapleshade girls.’ ”

“Didn’t we go through this yesterday?”

“New information.”

“Where are you right now?”

“Home, but I’m heading into the city in an hour.”

“This is real? Not some wild-ass theorizing?”

“Real enough.”

There was a pause. “How secure is your phone?”

“I have no idea.”

“You can take the thruway to the city, right?”

“I guess so.”

“So you could stop at my office en route?”

“I could.”

“Can you leave now?”

“Maybe in ten minutes.”

“Meet me at my office at nine-thirty. Gurney?”

“Yes?”

“This goddamn better be real.”

“Sheridan?”

“What?”

“If I were you, I’d pray for it not to be.”

T
en minutes later Gurney was on the road, heading east into the sun. His first stop was Abelard’s for a container of coffee to substitute for the nearly full cup he’d left on the kitchen table in his rush to get out.

He sat for a while in the gravelly little patch in front that passed for a parking area, reclined his seat about a third of the way, and tried to relax his mind by concentrating on nothing but the flavor of the coffee. It wasn’t a technique that worked particularly well for him, and he wondered why he kept trying it. It did have the effect of changing what was on his mind, but not necessarily to anything less worrisome. In this case it moved his focus from the dysfunctional mess of the investigation to the dysfunctional mess of his relationship with Kyle—and the growing pressure he felt to call him.

It was ludicrous, really. All he had to do was stop procrastinating and make the call. He knew very well that procrastination was nothing but a short-term escape that creates a long-term problem—that it just occupies more and more storage space in the brain, creating more and more discomfort. Intellectually, there was no argument. Intellectually, he knew that most of the misery in his life arose from the avoidance of discomfort.

He had Kyle’s new number on his speed dial.
Christ! Just do it!

He took out his phone, called the number, got voice mail:
“Hi, this is Kyle. I can’t pick up right now. Please leave a message.”

“Hi, Kyle, it’s Dad. Thought I’d call, get your impressions of
Columbia. The apartment share working out okay?” He hesitated, almost asked about Kate, Kyle’s ex-wife, thought better of it. “Nothing urgent, just wondering how you’re doing. Give me a call whenever you can. Talk to you soon.” He pushed the “end call” button.

A curious experience. A bit tangled, like the rest of Gurney’s emotional life. He was relieved that he’d finally called. He was also relieved, to be honest about it, that he’d gotten his son’s voice mail instead of his son. But maybe now he could stop thinking about it, at least for a while. He took a couple more swallows of his coffee, checked the time—8:52
A.M
.—and got back on the county road.

E
xcept for a gleaming black Audi and a handful of not-so-gleaming Fords and Chevys with official plates, the parking lot of the County Office Building was empty, as it usually was on a Saturday morning. The looming dirty-brick edifice looked cold and deserted, every bit the wretched institution it had once been.

Kline emerged from the Audi as Gurney pulled in to a nearby space. Another car, a Crown Victoria, entered the lot and parked on the far side of the Audi. Rodriguez got out from behind the wheel.

Gurney and Rodriguez approached Kline from opposite directions. They exchanged nods with the DA, but not with each other. Kline led the way in through a side door to which he had his own key, then up a flight of stairs. Not a word was spoken until they were seated in the leather chairs around the coffee table in his inner office. Rodriguez folded his arms tightly across his chest. His dark eyes were uncommunicative behind his steel-rimmed glasses.

“Okay,” said Kline, leaning forward. “Time to cut to the chase.” He was giving Gurney the kind of piercing look he might give a hostile witness on the stand. “We’re here because of your promised bombshell, my friend. Let’s have it.”

Gurney nodded. “Right. The bombshell. You may want to take notes.” A twitch under one of the captain’s eyes told Gurney he heard the suggestion as an insult.

“Just get to the point,” said Kline.

“The bombshell comes in parts. I’ll toss them on the table. You
fit them together. First of all, it turns out that Hector Flores is the name of a character in an Elizabethan play—a character who pretends to be a Spanish gardener. Interesting coincidence, no?”

Kline gave Gurney a questioning frown. “What kind of play?”

“That’s where it gets interesting. The plot involves the violation of a major sexual taboo, incest—which happens to be a common element in the childhood formation of sex offenders.”

Kline’s frown deepened. “So you’re saying … what?”

“I’m saying that the man who was living in Ashton’s cottage almost certainly took the name Hector Flores from that play.”

The captain let out a little snort of disbelief.

“I think we need a bit more detail here,” said Kline.

“This play is about incest. The Hector Flores character in the play shows up disguised as a gardener. And …” Gurney couldn’t resist the dramatic pause. “It just so happens that he kills the guilty female character in the play by cutting off her head.”

Kline’s eyes widened. “What?”

Rodriguez gave Gurney a disbelieving stare. “Where the hell is this play?”

Rather than get bogged down in the argument sure to ensue if he revealed that the full text of the play no longer existed, Gurney gave the captain the name and affiliation of Peggy Meeker’s old college professor. “I’m sure he’d be happy to discuss it with you. And by the way, there’s no doubt at all that the play relates to Jillian Perry’s murder. The playwright’s name was Edward Vallory.”

It took a couple of seconds for this to register with Kline. “The text-message signature?”

“Right. So now we know for sure that the ‘Mexican laborer’ identity was a con from day one, a con that everyone fell for.”

The captain looked furious enough to burst into flames.

Gurney went on. “This guy came to Tambury with a long-term plan and a lot of patience. The obscurity of the literary reference means we’re dealing with a pretty sophisticated individual. And the content of the Vallory play makes it clear that Jillian Perry’s sexual history was almost certainly the motive for her murder.”

Kline looked like he was trying not to look stunned. “Okay, so we’ve got … we’ve got a new slant here.”

“Unfortunately, it’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

Kline’s eyes widened. “What iceberg?”

“The missing graduates.”

The captain shook his head. “It’s been said before, and I’ll say it again: There’s no proof that anyone’s
missing.
”

“Sorry,” said Gurney. “Didn’t mean to misuse a legal term. You’re right—nobody’s name has been entered yet in an official mis-pers database. So let’s call them … what? ‘Mapleshade graduates of currently unverifiable location’? That work better for you?”

Rodriguez came forward in his seat, his voice rasping. “I don’t have to take this wiseass crap from you!”

Kline raised his hand like a traffic cop. “Rod, Rod, take it easy. We’re all a little … you know … Just take it easy.” He waited until the man began to settle back in his chair before turning his attention to Gurney. “Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that one or more of these girls is actually missing, or unlocatable, or whatever the proper term would be. If that were the case, your conclusion is what?”

“If they’ve been abducted by the man calling himself Hector Flores, my conclusion is that either they’re dead or soon will be.”

Rodriguez lurched forward again in his chair. “There’s no evidence!
If, if, if, if
. It’s just one assumption on top of another.”

Kline took a slow breath. “That does seem like a hell of an end point to jump to, Dave. You want to give us a little help with the logic?”

“The content of the play, plus the Vallory text messages, suggest that Jillian Perry’s murder was an act of revenge for sexual abuse. A history of perpetrating sexual abuse happens to be a common factor among Mapleshade students, making them all potential targets. It would make Mapleshade the perfect place for a killer motivated by that issue to find his victims.”

“ ‘Potential targets’—did you hear that? ‘Potential,’ he just said. That’s my point.” Rodriguez shook his head. “All of this is—”

“Hold it, Rod, please,” Kline broke in. “I get your point. Believe me, I’m on your side. I’m a proof-oriented guy just like you are. But let’s hear him out. You know, no stone unturned. Let’s just hear him out. Okay?”

Rodriguez stopped talking, but he kept shaking his head like he hardly knew he was doing it. Kline gave Gurney a small nod to proceed.

“Regarding the missing girls, the similarity in the arguments leading to their departures is prima facie proof of a conspiracy. It’s inconceivable they would all have come up with the expensive-car demand by pure coincidence. A reasonable explanation is that it was a conspiracy created to facilitate their abductions.”

Kline looked like he had a case of Tabasco reflux. “Do you have any other facts that support the abduction hypothesis?”

“Hector Flores had asked Ashton for opportunities to work at Mapleshade, and the currently unlocatable girls were seen in conversations with him there.”

Rodriguez was still shaking his head. “That’s a pretty thin connection.”

“You’re right, Captain,” said Gurney wearily. “In fact, most of what we know is pretty thin. All the missing or abducted girls had previously appeared in sexually oriented ads for Karnala Fashion, as did Jillian Perry, but we know nothing about that company. How those modeling assignments were set up has not been determined, or even investigated. As of today the total number of girls who may be missing is still unknown. Whether the girls we can’t get in touch with are alive or dead is unknown. Whether abductions are occurring as we sit here is unknown. All I’m doing is telling you what I think. What I fear. Maybe I’m completely nuts, Captain. I hope to God I am, because the alternative is horrendous.”

Kline swallowed drily. “So you admit there’s a fair amount of supposition built into your … your view of this.”

“I’m a homicide cop, Sheridan. Without a few suppositions …” Gurney shrugged, his voice trailing off.

There was a long silence.

Rodriguez seemed deflated, smaller, as though half his anger were gone but hadn’t been replaced by anything else.

“Let’s assume, just for the sake of argument,” said Kline, “that you’re a hundred percent right.” He extended both hands, palms up, as though conveying open-mindedness to even the most outlandish theory. “What would you do?”

“The crucial task is to get up to speed on who’s missing. Get ahold of those Mapleshade class lists with the family contact information. Get them from Ashton this morning if possible. Interview every family, every graduate you can reach in Jillian’s class, then everyone from the year before and the year after. In any family where the daughter’s location is not verifiable, get all the descriptive and circumstantial detail you can to enter in the ViCAP, NamUs, NCIC databases—especially if the family’s last contact included the argument we’ve heard about.”

Kline glanced at Rodriguez. “Sounds like something we could be doing regardless.”

The captain nodded.

“Okay, go on.”

“In any case where the daughter can’t be reached, collect a DNA sample from a first-degree biological relative—mother, father, brother, sister. As soon as the BCI lab does the profile, run it against the profile of every unidentified female decedent of the right age within the time frame of the disappearance.”

“Geography?”

“National.”

“God! You realize what you’re asking? That stuff is all state by state, sometimes county by county. Some jurisdictions don’t save it. Some don’t even collect it.”

“You’re right—big pain in the ass. Costs money, takes time, coverage is incomplete. But it’ll be a bigger pain in the ass down the road if you have to explain why it wasn’t done.”

“Fine.” The word came out of Kline like an exclamation of disgust. “Next?”

“Next, track down Alessandro and Karnala Fashion. They both seem way too elusive for normal commercial enterprises. Next, interview all current Mapleshade students regarding anything they might know about Hector, Alessandro, Karnala, or any of the missing girls. Next, interview every current and recent Mapleshade employee.”

“You have any idea what kind of man-hours you’re talking about?”

“Sheridan, this is what I do for a living.” He paused at the
significance of the slip. “I mean,
did
for a living. BCI needs to throw a dozen investigators against this ASAP, more if they can. Once this hits the media, you’ll be eaten alive for doing anything less.”

Kline’s eyes narrowed. “Way you’re talking about it, we’ll be eaten alive no matter what.”

“The media will take whatever route attracts the biggest audience,” said Gurney. “So-called news reporting is a cartoon business. Give them a big, hot, cartoony story line and they’ll run with it. Guaranteed.”

Kline regarded him warily. “Like what?”

“The story here needs to be that you’ve pulled out all the stops. Totally proactive. The instant you and the BCI team discovered the difficulty some of the parents were having getting in touch with their daughters, you and Rod launched the biggest five-alarm, all-hands-on-deck, all-vacations-canceled serial-murder investigation in history.”

Kline’s mental hard drive seemed to be racing through the possible outcomes. “Suppose they pounce on the cost?”