Day Of The Dead Part 17

Nodding, Emma turned and hobbled back to the door. Opening it, she called inside. "I'm going for a ride," she said. "I'll be back after."

Brian Fellows arrived at the Pima County Sheriff's Department well before the appointed time for the interview with Erik LaGrange. Brian had been told that as of that afternoon, Erik would be represented by a public defender named Earl Coulter, which meant n.o.body was doing LaGrange any favors. Coulter's nickname, the Snoozer, derived from his propensity for turning up at court still reeking of last night's booze and then dozing throughout the proceedings. at the Pima County Sheriff's Department well before the appointed time for the interview with Erik LaGrange. Brian had been told that as of that afternoon, Erik would be represented by a public defender named Earl Coulter, which meant n.o.body was doing LaGrange any favors. Coulter's nickname, the Snoozer, derived from his propensity for turning up at court still reeking of last night's booze and then dozing throughout the proceedings.

All the way into town, Brian had been thinking about what Brandon Walker had said about the dead girl in the ice chest, the girl named Roseanne Orozco. The idea that there could be a connection between the two victims who had been murdered and dismembered more than thirty years apart seemed remote, but still...Brian was a cop who prided himself on keeping an open mind.

Once in his cubicle, he keyed Roseanne's name into his computer. Her case popped up along with all the other unsolved cold cases in Pima County. Only the basic facts had been summarized in the computer. To learn more, he'd need to examine the paper file. After requesting it from Records, Brian turned to what was available on yesterday's Jane Doe. Although, Although, Brian corrected, Brian corrected, Juanita Doe would be more like it. Juanita Doe would be more like it.

PeeWee showed up dressed as though he'd come straight from church. "Anything new?" he asked, settling at his own desk.

"Not much," Brian returned. "LaGrange drew Earl Coulter as his public defender."

"All the better for us," PeeWee said with a grin. "What about the autopsy?"

"We won't have that until tomorrow."

"How come the ME can take weekends off and we can't?" PeeWee complained. Detective Segura wasn't known for maintaining a positive mental att.i.tude.

"They've got refrigerators now," Brian answered. "Speaking of weekends off, the prosecutor's office is taking a pa.s.s on this meeting after all."

"They're the ones who set it up for today," PeeWee objected.

"Right," Brian said, "but right now it's just LaGrange, Coulter, and us."

"What a bunch of jerks," PeeWee grumbled.

When they entered the interview room, Earl Coulter was already there. The airless, drab room reeked of beery breath and stale cigar smoke. "How's it going, Earl?" Brian asked.

"Can't complain," Earl said. Sporting an atrocious, food-spotted tie across his protruding gut, he made as if to stand before deciding it wasn't worth the effort. After rising an inch or two off his chair and holding out a pudgy hand, he settled back into his chair with a relieved wheeze.

A door opened and a guard escorted the prisoner into the room. The orange jail jumpsuit and fluorescent overhead lights combined to give Erik a sallow, sickly look. Brian could tell from looking at him that he'd slept very little. The lawyer made another abortive effort at rising. "Earl Coulter," he said to Erik. "Glad to make your acquaintance."

Barely acknowledging the greeting, Erik turned to Brian. "Look, Detective Fellows," he said. "Refusing to talk to you yesterday without having an attorney present was poor judgment on my part. I was so shocked by what was happening that asking for a lawyer was all I could think of, but this mess is some kind of awful mistake. I know there's been a murder. You told me yesterday that the victim is a girl, but I have no idea who she was or what happened to her. What I do know is that I had nothing to do with it. I want to help you find whoever's responsible."

"Really, Mr. LaGrange," Coulter began, but Erik brushed aside his attorney's objection.

"I said I want to help, and I do," Erik declared, looking directly at Brian. "Let's get on with it."

The fact that the suspect was ready to cooperate came as no surprise to Detective Fellows. A night in jail often produced remarkable changes of heart when it came to a suspect's willingness to talk. While PeeWee interrupted the proceedings long enough to announce on tape who was present, Brian removed his notebook from his pocket and consulted it.

"You stopped talking right about the time I asked you what you did after work Friday night. How about if we start there? Tell us about Friday."

"I came home," Brian said. "I picked up carry-out Mexican food from Lerua's after work and brought it home."

"By yourself?"

"I was with someone else. She wasn't with me when I got the food, but she came by the house later. That's the thing. I don't want to cause her any trouble." He paused, then added, "She's married. You won't drag her into any of this, will you?"

"That depends," Brian said carefully.

"On what?"

"On your telling us everything you can. We may need to check with her to verify that you've told us the truth and can corroborate your alibi."

"Mr. LaGrange..." Earl Coulter began again, but Erik wasn't listening.

"Her husband won't have to know?"

"We can be discreet," Brian said.

PeeWee Segura, standing behind the suspect, rolled his eyes at this blatant lie, but Erik was desperate and he bought it completely.

"Her name's Gayle Stryker," he said. "She and her husband, Larry Stryker, Dr. Lawrence Stryker, run Medicos for Mexico. Gayle's my boss. She and I have been...well, involved for some time."

"I take it her husband has no idea that the two of you are an item?"

"Right," Erik said. "At least I don't think he does."

"All right. The lady came to visit, the two of you had dinner together, and then what? Did she stay over?"

"No," Erik said. He paused, as if considering what to say next. "We had a fight. Gayle got mad and left early."

"What time?"

"I don't remember exactly. Maybe ten. Maybe later."

"What did you do then?"

"I went to bed. The next morning I got up and went for a hike. I was coming back from that yesterday afternoon when you found me."

"You have no idea how all that human blood ended up in the back of your pickup truck?" Brian asked.

"None at all. It wasn't there when I came home from work Friday afternoon."

"When you returned home from your hike, was your truck parked in the same place?"

"As far as I know. I couldn't swear, but it seemed like the same place."

"Who else has access to your vehicle?"

"No one."

"Is there an extra set of keys?" Brian asked.

"Yes."

"Where do you keep those?"

"In my briefcase."

"And that is?"

"At home. In the kitchen on the counter. I was carrying the food and the briefcase at the same time. I put them down on the counter."

"You still haven't told me how the blood might have gotten there. Are you suggesting someone gained access to your house, took your vehicle, used it during the course of a homicide, and then returned it to your driveway?" Brian asked. "Doesn't that seem a little far-fetched?"

Erik's face reddened. "It sounds ridiculous, but that has to be what happened."

"Who else has access to your house?" Brian repeated with apparent unconcern. "Do you have a cleaning lady, by any chance? Or does Mrs. Stryker have her own key?"

"No cleaning lady," Erik answered. "Gayle has a garage-door opener. She usually comes and goes through the garage."

Something about that rang a bell. Brian paged through his notebook until he found his interview with Erik's neighbor.

"Any other family members living here in town?" Brian asked. "Parents? Brother or sisters?"

"My mother died shortly after I was born. I have no idea if my father is dead or alive."

Which means, Brian thought, Brian thought, the lady the neighbor saw Erik spending so much time with definitely wasn't his mother after all. the lady the neighbor saw Erik spending so much time with definitely wasn't his mother after all.

"Are you a Diamondback fan?" Brian asked.

For a moment Erik seemed stunned, as though he thought the conversation had gone from discussing the murder to a casual "How-about-them-Cubs" bulls.h.i.+t session. "I guess so," he said.

"Do you have some of their gear?"

"Oh," Erik said. "Yes. A baseball cap, a sweats.h.i.+rt, and a jacket. Medicos did a fund-raising event with them last year. Why?"

"What kind of tennis shoes do you wear?"

"Nikes."

"All right," Brian said. "That's it for now. How do we go about getting in touch with Mrs. Stryker?"

"But I thought you said you wouldn't drag her into this," Erik objected.

"I said we'd be discreet," Brian countered. "We need to talk to her to verify what you've told us so far. If you're telling the truth, I'm sure she won't mind vouching for you."

Erik looked uncomfortable.

Brian shrugged. "You can give us her phone number now, or we can track her down on our own tomorrow. Suit yourself."

Erik glanced uneasily at Earl Coulter, as if he was finally ready to take the attorney's advice. Unfortunately, Coulter wasn't listening. The Snoozer was sound asleep, his double chin resting on the awful tie.

As Erik was being led back to his cell, he tried to quell another attack of panic. Overnight he'd told himself things couldn't be all that bad, but in the interview room he had finally glimpsed the totality of what he was up against. A girl was dead-murdered. Her blood was in his truck and most likely on his clothing as well. His machete was the presumed murder weapon. It meant that someone somewhere was trying to frame him for a murder he hadn't committed. To make matters worse, Erik was stuck with a drunken attorney who was utterly useless. back to his cell, he tried to quell another attack of panic. Overnight he'd told himself things couldn't be all that bad, but in the interview room he had finally glimpsed the totality of what he was up against. A girl was dead-murdered. Her blood was in his truck and most likely on his clothing as well. His machete was the presumed murder weapon. It meant that someone somewhere was trying to frame him for a murder he hadn't committed. To make matters worse, Erik was stuck with a drunken attorney who was utterly useless.

Erik's only hope was that once Gayle knew the kind of trouble he was in, she'd forgive him and come to his rescue. That wasn't too much to ask, was it?

The guard took Erik as far as his cell and let him inside. As the bars clanged shut behind him, it sounded as though they were closing forever. He fell onto his cot. For the first time since his grandmother died, Erik LaGrange tried to pray.

Nineteen.

Brandon dropped Emma at the hospital's front entrance. By the time he had parked and come inside, Emma was seated at a desk where a young Tohono O'odham clerk sat before a keyboard.

Brandon's first instinct was to go to Emma and offer moral support. After a moment's thought, however, he decided against it. Emma's request would be better received without a Mil-gahn Mil-gahn man peering over her shoulder. Brandon stationed himself by the door and tried to look un.o.btrusive. Not that it worked. Every person who went in or out gave him a serious once-over. man peering over her shoulder. Brandon stationed himself by the door and tried to look un.o.btrusive. Not that it worked. Every person who went in or out gave him a serious once-over.

Emma's conversation was too soft-spoken for eavesdropping. Each time Emma spoke, the young woman would type briskly away. Then, after a frowning pause, she would shake her head. Brandon didn't have to hear what was being said to understand that.

Brandon was reconsidering his decision to stay out of it when the clerk typed in yet another request. This time, after the pause, she smiled and nodded. Seconds later, she reached over to a printer and removed several pieces of paper. After stapling them together, she handed them to Emma, who studied them briefly and stuffed them into her purse. She rose to her feet. With a nod of thanks, Emma swung her walker around and headed for the door.

Brandon leaped to open the door as Emma approached. "You got it?" he asked.

Looking at him, she shook her head almost imperceptibly, but she didn't answer aloud until they were outside the building.

"She's wrong," Emma said as she stamped along, banging her walker on the sidewalk.

"But I thought she gave you something," Brandon began. "I saw her hand you-"

"She says there's no record of anyone named Roseanne Orozco ever being admitted to the hospital," Emma said fiercely. "She said it was so long ago that maybe they lost the records, but it's not true. She found my record. It shows I was in the hospital three times-once when Andrea was born, once when Roseanne was born, and fifteen years ago for my hysterectomy."

Brandon helped Emma up onto the Suburban's running board. While she settled in, he stashed the walker behind the front seat. Once he was behind the wheel, he realized Emma was staring at him intently.

"Andrea's right," she said, nodding. "It was somebody at the hospital."

"We don't know that," Brandon cautioned. "Just because the records are missing..."

But Emma Orozco wasn't listening. "I could never understand it," she said. "They told me Roseanne was pregnant when she died, but I could never understand how that was possible. If she'd had a boyfriend, I would have known about him, or Andrea would have. But Roseanne didn't talk, talk, Mr. Walker. Not to anyone. Not even to me or to her father." Mr. Walker. Not to anyone. Not even to me or to her father."

Brandon had switched on the ignition. Rather than pulling out of the parking lot, he sat with the engine idling while the air-conditioning gradually came on.

"But there were all those rumors," Emma added after a long pause.

"What rumors?"

"People said some of the doctors at the hospital..." Emma's voice faded away.