The Unseen - A Mystery (The Baudin & Dixon Trilogy Book 2) Page 13

  37

  Baudin stopped in front of Candi’s apartment complex. He got out, and Dixon followed him. Farther down the parking lot, a child was standing by himself with a toy in his hand. The child eyed them but said nothing. Baudin smiled at him, and the child ran off around the building.

  He knocked, and Candi answered with a cigarette dangling from her mouth. The apartment stank of pot, and Baudin shut the door once Dixon had come in. He went to sit down at her table to talk—then froze in place.

  Lying on the table was a small photograph of Chris Stuttle. He was partially decomposed and completely dismembered. Someone had dug him up, laid him out on the dirt, and snapped a photo.

  “Where did you get this?” he stammered.

  “Someone knocked on my door a couple hours ago, and by the time I got there, it was just this photo sittin’ there. It was in an envelope that had your name written on it. It’s right here.”

  Candi handed him an envelope with his name scrawled across it in pen. Baudin set the envelope down and approached the photo. He placed his palms on the table and stared down at the vacant eyes that had nearly rotted away.

  Dixon came up behind and mumbled, “Shit. Fuck me.”

  Baudin went into the kitchen and got a sandwich bag. As carefully as he could, he slid the photo down by the corner and into the sandwich bag, followed by the envelope. He sealed the bag then held it between his fingers for a second. Dixon was pacing, staring down at the carpet, his hands on his hips. He was starting to panic.

  “Who is it?” Candi asked.

  “No one. We’ll take care of it.”

  “Am I in danger?”

  “I don’t know. This was for me. But they know that you have a connection to me. Do you have anywhere else you could spend the next couple nights?”

  She nodded. “Friend’s house, I guess.”

  Baudin took out some cash and offered it to her.

  She declined. “I think I make more than you,” she said.

  “Just take it. Please.”

  She took the cash and slipped it into her bra. “What the hell is this all about?”

  “Just a blast from the past,” Baudin said casually. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “If it was nothin’ to worry about, you wouldn’t ask me to spend the night somewhere else.”

  Baudin looked down at the envelope and photo. “Pack up. I’ll drive you.”

  They dropped Candi off at a friend’s home about twenty minutes away. As she was leaving, she leaned in through the driver’s-side window and pecked him on the cheek.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  “Just for carin’. Most guys wouldn’t give a shit about what happened to me.”

  Baudin looked forward. “I’ll swing by and check on you later tonight.”

  He pulled away, and he and Dixon were silent for long time before they spoke. Baudin didn’t feel like driving out to the Walks’ farm anymore. He didn’t feel like anything. So he pulled over in a grocery store parking lot.

  A young mom was walking into the store and talking on her cell phone while her toddler was running through the lot. A driver slammed on the brakes, and the car’s horn blared. The mom flipped off the driver.

  “How the hell does anyone else know?” Dixon asked.

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  “What am I, an idiot? You think I’d tell someone I shot my wife’s lover?”

  “Did you?”

  Dixon stared at him. “No, man. No. I didn’t tell anyone. Did you?”

  Baudin shook his head. “No. Someone followed me out to the desert.”

  “But how would they know?”

  “They must’ve been watching us that night. Seen something. I think it’s Sandoval.”

  “Why?”

  “We hit him up, and then Candi gets that photo? That’s not a coincidence, man. It’s Sandoval. It’s a message to back off.”

  Dixon exhaled and looked out the window. “We’ll run the photo and envelope, but there’s no way there’s prints on there.”

  “No. But we don’t need prints. We need to know where the paper and envelope came from. Not every store sells every type of paper. Maybe we can track it down that way.”

  “Well, drop me off at the station. I’ll get it over to the SIS to run.”

  “And what you gonna say it is?”

  “They won’t ask. I’ll tell him it’s follow-up to something personal. Those guys know me.”

  Baudin exhaled and started the car. He headed to the station. For the first time he could remember in months, he felt a cold tightness in his guts. It was fear.

  38

  Dixon dropped off the envelope and the paper with a man named Richards in the Scientific Investigation Section of the Cheyenne PD. When Dixon walked in, Richards, wearing a lab coat, was hunched over a thin piece of metal. He was gazing at it through protective goggles, and Dixon stood behind him. As far as he could tell, Richards wasn’t doing anything but staring at it.

  “Richards, I need a favor.”

  “One sec.”

  Another moment went by in silence. Then—bam!—a flash went off, and sparks flew off the piece of metal. Richards didn’t flinch, but the explosion startled Dixon.

  “Shit. What was that?”

  “Controlled detonation. Just sulphur dioxide. When you burn it on top of metal, it can make any dried blood stains come to the surface.”

  “It doesn’t burn it away?”

  “No. It’s like a little miracle. It actually hardens the blood, and we can just take a sample.”

  “What case is this for?”

  “No case. Just saw this at a seminar and wanted to try it. Put some deer’s blood on there.”

  Dixon shook his head. “Whatever floats your boat, I guess.” He handed him the sandwich bag. “Everything you can tell me about the letter and the envelope.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “Personal favor. Off the books.”

  “Oh, it must be juicy.”

  “It is, but it’s gotta stay between us.”

  “Nothing I love more than intrigue. I’ll have something for you by morning.”

  “Thanks, man. And don’t blow off any fingers.”

  Dixon left the basement and went to his desk. He still had other cases, though they were so minor, he didn’t want to spend more than a few minutes on them. Finding someone who’d broken a car window or stolen a purse that had been left out at a convenience store was almost impossible without witnesses or video anyway.

  The only place in the world he wanted to be right now was home. A decision had slowly been percolating in the back of his mind, and it’d taken fruition that morning: he didn’t want a paternity test. It was better to live with the possibility that Randy truly was his biological son. In the moments when the pain and anger subsided, he had to admit to himself that it really didn’t matter. He would raise him as his own, no matter what.

  Driving home quickly on the freeway as the afternoon slowly turned to evening, he put on his sunglasses so that he could glance at the setting sun. The thought of getting drunk before telling her seemed like a good idea, and he knew something was wrong as soon as he had the thought. But he could consider that stuff later. Right now, he wanted to tell her then start moving his things back into his own house.

  When he got home, he practically jumped out of the car and headed inside. A neighbor was mowing his lawn, and Dixon waved. The man looked surprised then waved back. Dixon entered the home, a large smile on his face, and the smile went away instantly.

  Hillary was sitting at the table, her arms folded. She looked as if she’d been crying, and several used tissues were piled on the table.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, rushing over to her.

  And then he saw what was wrong. Lying in front of her on the table was a photo of Chris, the same photo Baudin’s hooker had received. Next to it was an envelope with Dixon’s name on it. He closed his eyes. I have to be dreaming. T
his can’t be real.

  “Did you do it?” she asked.

  “Why would you think I did this?”

  “Don’t lie to me, Kyle. Not now. Did you do this?”

  Dixon fell into a chair and slumped over. His eyes wouldn’t come up to meet hers. Every ounce of his strength had been sucked from his body, and all he could think was that he needed a drink. “Yes,” he said softly.

  The admission opened a wound. He had made a resolution not to tell anyone. He and Baudin had vowed to take it to their graves. Out of every person on the planet, she was the last one he wanted to know.

  Tears streamed down her face. He shook his head at the absurdity of it. She had her head down in her palms and wouldn’t look up.

  “Hil,” he said, reaching for her.

  As soon as his fingers touched her, she jumped back, knocking her chair to the floor. “Don’t you touch me! You don’t get to touch me anymore.” She stormed away and slammed the bedroom door.

  Dixon could hear her weeping. He got up and went to the door: it was locked. “Hil, I need to talk to you. Hil?”

  He tried the door again, as though expecting a different result. Then he went to the kitchen and collapsed into one of the chairs. The photo was identical to Baudin’s, but he picked it up anyway then turned it over. He tore it in half and threw it across the table. In a fit of rage, he jumped to his feet and flipped the table. The crash woke the baby, making him cry.

  Hillary didn’t come out of her bedroom. Dixon leaned against her bedroom door for a moment longer, listening to her cry. Then he left.

  39

  Baudin tried Heather’s cell and got her voicemail, so he swung home to check on her. She wasn’t there. He tried Keri’s number. She informed him that both girls had gone to a movie, and she was supposed to pick them up in an hour.

  “You eaten?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Come over for dinner.”

  Baudin didn’t hate the idea of a home-cooked meal eaten with a beautiful woman. Usually, when he was younger, when he was confused or frightened, he’d needed to be alone. Solitude gave some men strength, and it destroyed others. It had always given him strength. Must be getting weak in my later years.

  “Yeah, I’d love to. I have to follow up on something for a case, though. I’ll swing by in a couple hours, if that’s okay.”

  As he passed the kitchen table, Baudin picked up the printouts he’d made. They were photos of Roger Walk, Dennis Walk, and Henry Peck. He stared at the picture of Dennis Walk. He had a deformity in his upper lip—a cleft palate almost, but not quite. It caused his lip to curl up. The only picture of Dennis he could find was an old DMV photo. Baudin tucked the photos into a file folder then rushed out the door.

  He remembered where he’d dropped Candi off, and he drove thirty miles per hour over the speed limit. He had a feeling that whoever had sent him those photos had something else in store for him and that it wasn’t far away.

  He was convinced Sandoval was behind the photo. Sandoval—not the mayor or the business magnates who lived up on the hill—ran Cheyenne. He had founded Sigma Mu and was its oldest living member. No one would’ve dared to send that photo without Sandoval’s okay.

  But the man seemed impenetrable. He was surrounded by layers of sycophants, and Baudin was still an outsider. He was a transplant from a big city, and all the locals thought the city folks looked down on them. That couldn’t have been farther from the truth, though. Baudin saw them as more authentic than the people in the big cities. Most of the people tried to do good and not lie, cheat, or steal. He didn’t feel that was a common human trait anymore.

  Baudin parked in front of the house and crossed the lawn. The door was open. He poked his head in and saw three women sitting in the living room, watching television. Baudin opened the door and knocked once he was inside the house. Candi smiled and rose from the couch.

  “You should keep the door locked,” he said.

  “No one knows I’m here.”

  Baudin glanced at the other two women. “I need to show you something.” He took the photos out of the file. “Do you recognize any of them?”

  Candi looked carefully at each photo. “Just him,” she said, pointing to Dennis Walk. “Dennis.”

  “He’s a regular?”

  “Oh, yeah. Like every weekend. He picks up one or two girls, and they head up to his farm. Even if he doesn’t pick up the girls, his farm’s always open for partying. Lots of drugs he doesn’t charge anyone for. He’s got an inheritance or something, so he doesn’t care about money none.”

  “He ever try to hurt you or any of the other girls?”

  “Dennis? No, he’s a sweetheart. Real shy. He treats us like family. A lotta the girls even give him freebies.”

  Baudin stared at the man’s photo. “Any girls not come back after goin’ with him?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But there’s other places you can pick up whores. We all got our spots.”

  One of the women in the living room shouted, “I been with him once.”

  Baudin hurried over to her and showed her the photo. “With him?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, Dennis. Up at the farm.”

  “Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary? Did he try to hurt you or have any odd requests?”

  “They all got odd requests, honey. But no, Dennis was fine. It’s his mama that creeps me the fuck out.”

  “His mom?”

  “Yeah, she’s, like, in his basement. Scary shit. We ain’t allowed to see her, though.”

  “What kind of things does Dennis request?”

  “He likes bondage, the rough stuff. Ties us up sometimes.”

  “Anything else at his farm seem out of place?”

  She shook her head. “No, don’t think so. It’s a big place, though.”

  Baudin stared at the photo of Dennis Walk for a moment then stuffed all three photos back into the file. He took out his phone and dialed Dixon’s number, but no one answered.

  “You doin’ okay?” he asked Candi.

  “Fine, hon. You take care of yourself. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I’ll clear this thing up as fast as I can. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Shit happens.”

  Baudin left. He had been looking in the wrong place. He’d been so focused on Peck that he’d completely neglected a man who was addicted to prostitutes. And it was an addiction, as surely as heroin or coke was. Baudin had seen a lot of it in his time with the Special Victims Division of the LAPD. Men got addicted to pornography then made the leap into visiting prostitutes. Once they saw how easy and quick it was, they would frequent them more and more. Then one day, they couldn’t go very long without one.

  Baudin’s cell phone rang. It was a station number. “This is Baudin.”

  “Detective Baudin,” Bill Jessop said on the other end, “I need you to come in right now, please.”

  As far as Baudin could remember, Jessop had never once used the word please with him. “For what?”

  “Your partner’s here, and I need to speak to both of you. Just get here. Now.”

  Jessop hung up. Baudin threw the file on the passenger seat and sat in his car, thinking. He wanted to head up to the Walks’ farm right away. How much trouble would I really be in if I just ignored Jessop and saw him tomorrow?

  But he didn’t want to go to the farm without Dixon. So he started the car and headed back to the station.

  40

  Missy sat in the dark for a long time, so long that she began to drift off. Then the sound of the entrance to the barn sliding open woke her. It sounded old, and metal squealed as the door hit the other side. A cold draft blew in. She couldn’t hear crickets but saw sunlight come in. She guessed it was early morning.

  Footfalls echoed in the barn. The shoes were softer than boots. They came to the center of the room and stood still, then they began to move again. Missy’s heart thumped so hard that she thought she might lo
se her breath. The screwdriver was slick in her sweaty hands. Trying to calm her breathing, she breathed through her mouth as softly as she could. The footfalls grew louder as they approached.

  It was too dark to see much more than shadows. But that meant it was too dark for him to see, too. Slowly, the figure came into view.

  Missy could feel something rising in her throat. She felt sick, as if she might puke. Her hands were trembling, and she gripped the screwdriver even more tightly. As quietly as she could, she got to her feet.

  The figure wasn’t far now. Just around the corner. Please, please, please, please…

  Her mind was a soup of fear and confusion. Nothing but that single word stuck for very long. No one thought could penetrate the cloud that had settled in. But that one word kept coming to her, though she didn’t know to whom she was saying it. Please, please, please, please…

  The figure was right there, right next to her. She could hear his breathing. Missy closed her eyes, said a prayer, then jumped out, screaming. She stabbed at the shadow and completely missed. Then she heard another sound—more screaming.

  She thought it was the echoes of her own screaming, but the shadow had jumped back, and she could see the outline of Belle. The other woman was nude, too.

  “She’s dead,” Belle said, in a stupor. “She’s dead. Jenny’s dead.”

  “We need to go.”

  “She just died right there. They made me watch. She’s dead.”

  Missy pulled her out near the light of the open door and could see her eyes were glazed over. Her head bobbed slightly back and forth.

  “We need to go, Belle. Right now.”

  “They made me watch.”

  Missy took her hand and pulled her out of the barn. The sky was lightening. Holding Belle’s hand tightly, Missy ran. She didn’t slow down. The only thing keeping her from a full sprint was Belle.

  They passed the truck, and she considered seeing if the keys were in there. Instead she decided to run for it—to run and not stop running.