I was uneasy on the drive back to Santa Teresa. The attempted break-in at my office on Monday was consistent with Ned’s checking out of the Sand Bar Motel and traveling north. I’d spotted him in my neighborhood on Tuesday night, which placed him squarely in Santa Teresa. So far, the STPD and Pearl’s homeless pals hadn’t turned up any sign of him. Ned was like a poisonous snake—better to keep in sight than to wonder where he might strike next. There had to be a way to find him.
It occurred to me that I ought to have a conversation with Ned’s second wife, Phyllis Joplin, who was living in Perdido the last I’d heard. I’d learned about her when the now-deceased detective Pete Wolinsky had picked up an early whiff of Ned’s pathology. Pete had put together a list of the women who’d been closely associated with him and suffered in consequence. I’d known Pete early in my career and I’d thought little of him until I understood how astute he’d been at ferreting out Ned’s history. First on the list was the high school girlfriend Ned had been obsessed with who’d since moved out of state. Next was the name of the girl he married shortly afterward, who’d died under cloudy circumstances. His second wife, Phyllis, had had the strength and the good sense to divorce him. A psychologist named Taryn Sizemore, who dated Ned for two years, also managed to disentangle herself.
Over the span of some twenty-five years or so, he’d used his hobby, photography, to present himself as a scout from the New York fashion industry, crisscrossing the Southwest in search of fresh talent. The last two names on Pete’s list had turned out to be two of the young girls he’d murdered. As good as his word, he did indeed take their pictures, along with their lives. The police had discovered hundreds of additional photographs in the darkroom he abandoned in the dead of night. Not all of his photographic subjects had been killed and there was no apparent pattern to those who survived. He was by then married to his third wife, Celeste, who’d been rescued by friends shortly after his crimes came to light. From that point on, he had the full fury of law enforcement breathing down his neck. So far, he’d managed to evade capture.
I’d never met Phyllis face-to-face. I pictured her big and blond, but I was probably way off. After Pete’s death, I’d spoken to her by phone. She told me Ned specialized in wooing vulnerable women, who were easy to dominate. When she met him, she was newly divorced, unemployed, overweight, and had developed a nervous condition that made her hair fall out in clumps. Early in the romance he made a point of turning on the charm, which morphed into neediness, and shortly thereafter turned murderous. He introduced her to asphyxiophilia, the happy practice of choking your bed partner to the point of losing consciousness as a means of increasing sexual arousal. She was embarrassed to admit the hold he had on her because by then, she found him repulsive in every other aspect of their lives together.
I took out my address book and looked up her number. I dialed and she picked up on the first ring, rattling off the name of her business, which I didn’t catch. I knew she was a certified public accountant, but that was the extent of it. “Phyllis. This is Kinsey Millhone up in Santa Teresa. We spoke six months ago.”
“You’re the private detective. I remember you,” she said. “I hope you’re calling to say Ned Lowe is dead.”
“No such luck. He’s been spotted in the area and I thought you should know.”
“Well, I appreciate the warning. I heard he’s wanted in five states, so I’ve been rooting for someone to shoot him down in cold blood.”
“We all have our hopes and dreams,” I replied.
“I’d have said ‘shoot him down like a dog’ but I don’t want to denigrate our four-footed friends.”
“What about Celeste? I’d like to warn her that he could show up on her doorstep. Any idea how I can get hold of her?”
“Good question. How’d you find out he was back?”
I noticed she’d bypassed my question about Celeste, but I let that slide for the moment. “He tried to break into my office. I had an alarm system installed six months ago, so he wasn’t able to accomplish much except to break a window with a rock. That was Monday of this week. Tuesday night while I was out, he stopped by my studio asking friends about me.”
“This is making me sick. I thought we’d seen the last of him, but clearly not. I trust the police are on it.”
“They’re doing what they can. They’ve stepped up patrols and they’ve circulated his mug shot to the motels and hotels in the beach area here. They’ve also notified law enforcement in Perdido and Olvidado. A couple of my homeless pals have alerted the local shelters. I just got back from a run to Winterset and Cottonwood, distributing fliers with his photograph and a thumbnail account of what he’s wanted for. The manager of the Sand Bar Motel recognized him. He told me he’d stayed there for three nights and checked out Monday morning.”
“How’d they get a mug shot? I didn’t know he had a record.”
“He assaulted a young girl in Burning Oaks. This was maybe six years ago. He was arrested, booked, photographed, and fingerprinted. He posted bail and he was released OR. The girl disappeared shortly after that and they dropped the case. As far as I know, that’s his one and only police contact.”
“He’s a cunning son of a bitch. Any idea what he’s up to?”
“That’s what I’ve been asking myself.”
“I’ll tell you my guess. The man wants his trinkets.”
“Ah. From the young girls he killed,” I said. “I remember Celeste telling me about his so-called souvenirs. She found the key to a locked file drawer and removed them while he was off on a business trip.”
“I don’t think she understood the significance,” Phyllis said. “All she knew was how furious he became when he found out what she’d done.”
“I take it she didn’t leave anything with you.”
“Oh, hell no. Are you kidding me? That’s evidence. If she’d given me that stuff, I’d have handed it over to the police. She must have held on to it herself.”
“Well, I know she didn’t pass it on to Pete Wolinsky before he died. Ned went to great trouble searching his widow’s house and never found a thing. What puzzles me is how abruptly he’s managed to drop out of sight. It’s like a disappearing act. Now you see him, now you don’t. He has to be around here someplace.”
“You might try RV and mobile home parks. He likes taking his housing with him. He’s like a hermit crab in that respect.”
“Good suggestion. Thanks. What about the house he and Celeste owned in Cottonwood? What’s happened to that?”
“Still sitting there as far as I know. If the bank foreclosed, I’d have seen the notice in the paper.”
“You think it’s possible he’s taken up residence there?”
“Possible,” she said without conviction. “Utilities have been cut, so he’d have a roof over his head but not much else.”
“What about his friends?”
“Ned doesn’t have friends.”
“What about acquaintances? He must know someone in the area.”