Gingerly, I reached for the baby, moving slowly in case he changed his mind. I picked her up and tossed her across the yard. He bounded over the dirt, grabbed her in his mouth, tossed her, caught her again, and then returned and placed her at my feet.
Henry said, “Keep at it. I’ll be right back.” He made a beeline for the back door and slipped into the house.
“Right behind you,” Pearl said and followed him in.
Killer and I played fetch for the next twenty-five minutes. No sign of Henry. No sign of Pearl. If my attention flagged at all, the dog got all broody and caused me to fret about dog bites. Ed observed from his window perch, amused but mystified, probably thinking only a dog could comport himself so foolishly. I wondered if I’d be driven insane before the day was done. As it happened, Killer’s baby was all tuckered out and he had to lie down with her between his front paws so she could have a little rest. I staggered to my feet and made a slow backward walk to my front door, where I took out my keys and let myself in, keeping him firmly in my sights.
? ? ?
Among the mail that had come in, there was a plain brown 8-by-11-inch mailer. My name penned across the face. No sender’s name, no postage, and no return address. I studied it briefly and then opened it with caution. I’d once had someone gift me with a couple of tarantulas in a similar envelope.
The sheets I pulled out were copies of Ned Lowe’s mug shot and a brief account of the warrants out on him. The black-and-white photograph didn’t do him any favors. It must have been taken years earlier because he looked younger but just as tired. He’d sported a stingy mustache in those days, and the bags under his eyes hadn’t yet puffed up to their full proportions. He was a homely man, which was not so much a matter of his features as the beaten look in his eyes. It may have been that quality that led me to assume he was harmless. Perhaps he’d adapted the expression as the perfect camouflage.
Arizona and Nevada State Police detectives are looking for Ned Benjamin Lowe, 53, a suspect in the disappearance of Susan Telford, a 14-year-old white female, last seen on the morning of March 28, 1987, on Paseo Verde Parkway in Henderson, NV. Additionally, he is a person of interest in the 1986 disappearance of Janet Macy from her home in Tucson, Arizona. In both cases, the victims were approached by a man claiming to be a photographer scouting for modeling talent in the fashion industry.
Police say Ned Lowe is wanted on active and extraditable felony arrest warrants. Anyone with information about his whereabouts is asked to contact state police.
The phone numbers for both agencies were listed, along with the advisory note that all calls would be kept confidential. The number for an anonymous tip line was also given.
I picked up the handset and put a call through to Jonah at home.
“Hello?” Camilla.
“May I speak to Detective Robb?” I said. Ho ho. Clever me, asking for him by rank and last name so she wouldn’t realize who was calling.
There was a stutter of silence before she slammed the phone down in my ear. Guess she’s smarter than I thought.
Three minutes later the phone rang.
I answered warily, thinking she was calling back to scream at me.
“Hey, Kinsey. Jonah.”
I pulled the handset away from my ear and squinted. “How’d you know to call me?”
“She slammed the phone down in someone’s ear. I figured it was you.”
“Is she there now?”
“She went out and banged the door shut. I’ll pay for this later, but what the hell. You called about the bulletin.”
“I did, and thanks for dropping it off. I take it your officers haven’t picked up any sign of him.”
“No, but it’s early yet. The subject came up at the squad meeting and everybody’s onboard. We’ll cover the beach-area motels and spread out from there.”
“That sounds great. I’ve got a couple of homeless pals checking the Rescue Mission and Harbor House. They’re also scouting freeway underpasses and the old hobo camp. I was thinking about canvassing motels in Winterset and Cottonwood.”
“Have at it.”
The line went dead, so Camilla must have doubled back, hoping to catch him in the act.
With Killer still parked in the backyard, I decided I really had no compelling reason to leave the house. My cupboard was bare, but I could probably make it until Lucky woke up. I decided to use the time to type up my notes, so I hauled out my portable Smith Corona and removed the lid. I took out my index cards and sorted through the information I’d assembled. As I converted my handwritten notes to a proper report, I let the facts flow over me, making no effort to channel the stream. Coming to any conclusion at this stage of my investigation would serve to filter out competing possibilities. The only notion I tagged for further consideration was that the blackmail scheme was the brainstorm of a newcomer to the scene. Those who’d participated in the taping ten years before—Fritz, Troy, Iris, Austin, and Bayard—saw it as a spoof. The extortionist apparently had no idea the taping was a pseudo-pornographic prank and therefore worthless for ransom purposes.
I sensed the contours of a story behind the story I’d been hearing, but I wasn’t sure what it was. I’d picked up fragments, but I was missing a cohesive narrative. Troy had accepted responsibility for his part in Sloan’s death and I felt his remorse was sincere. Fritz was still busy pointing a finger at someone else—anyone else—hoping to shift the blame. Austin, of course, had simply absented himself and therefore, as far as anyone knew, had escaped the consequences. What I found myself thinking about were the players peripheral to Sloan’s shooting death. Poppy and Iris being a case in point. I wondered how many moments had come and gone when one of them could have stepped up to the plate—made a phone call to the police, mentioned the situation to a parent or someone in a position of authority. By doing nothing, Sloan’s so-called friends had sealed her fate as surely as Fritz had with his gun. In hindsight, did any of them recognize the price she had paid for their passivity? Their failure to act was all the more damning for the ease with which they rationalized their behavior afterward.
I looked at the two names that remained on my list. Given the cleaning out of Sloan’s room, her mother should be next, but I felt myself resisting. I don’t know how you talk to a woman who’s lost her only child. True, I could pose as a reporter interested in the case, but lying to a woman who’d suffered such a loss taxed even my highly developed skills at bending the truth. I can fib with the best of them, but I couldn’t give this woman the impression that I was promoting justice for Sloan when I was being paid for something else altogether and not doing too well with that.
Then there was Bayard Montgomery. So far, no one had much to say about him. I knew he was the unseen camera operator when the sex tape was made and I couldn’t help but wonder if this was his mode of operation, being at the same time the recorder of events and the man fading into the background for reasons of his own. I moved his name to the top of the list and I went to bed feeling cowardly, but relieved.
15
THE THREAT
May 1979