New River Blues (5 page)

He was brought back to the moment abruptly by the sight of a tarp tearing loose on a flatbed in the oncoming lane. As he watched, the last cord frayed through. The canvas flew over the minivan behind it, fluttered aloft for an improbable couple of seconds before it lost its lift and slammed into the windshield of the Durango that was following the minivan.

The Durango's driver, his world gone suddenly dark, hit the brake and pulled off the highway to his left. But his panicked swerve was a little too fast, maybe, or the pitch on the shoulder steeper than he thought. At seventy miles an hour, terrible luck met less than perfect reflexes, and the Durango flipped and rolled across the median.

Roger had one gut-wrenching second to decide, brakes or gas? The convertible ahead of him laid on extra speed and got out of his way, and as space opened up he decided it would be better to try to outrun the thing than dodge it. He gave it everything he had, and his speed was close to ninety when the Durango, rolling, hooked his back bumper with its own and spun him in a perfect one-eighty. The two behemoths of the highway slammed together and whirled again, grinding each other into a pricey mass of flying shrapnel.

Even so it could have been worse. The Wal-Mart eighteen-wheeler following Roger came within inches of crashing into the newly formed pile of rubble, but preempted the lane to its right, and the drivers around it managed somehow to stay out of its mudguards.

And the Yukon's systems all worked to perfection. Roger's seat belt kept him from impaling himself on the steering column and triggered the airbags. He was sitting a notch too far forward, so when his front airbag inflated it broke his nose. Horns brayed and brakes squealed all around him for a blurry terrifying minute, and then the world went bright and still. His inflated cocoon began gently losing air, and white powder settled slowly around him. He was pretty sure he was still alive because he was hurting all over. He wanted to yell but couldn't get his breath. He never knew how long that interval lasted before he quit feeling anything.

He woke up lying on the edge of the road. A voice said, ‘This one's coming around.' He opened his eyes to blinding light, closed them back to slits, and saw the outline of a figure bending over him. It said, ‘You OK, buddy? You with me here?'

He sat up, embarrassed to find himself lying on the ground in a public place. He was not accustomed to needing help, especially from strangers – he hired the help he needed, paid them well, and worked them hard. ‘I'm all right,' he said quickly. ‘Don't worry about me.' Then he fainted and fell back.

‘Patricia.' Sarah kept her voice as matter-of-fact as if she were asking directions to the bathroom. ‘Do you know where your father is now?'

‘Uh . . . not exactly.' She glanced at her watch. ‘You could try his office pretty soon. He usually goes to work early.'

‘Doesn't he live here?'

‘Of course. But this weekend he's been out of town.'

‘Did your mother know where he was?'

‘Oh, sure. I asked her during the party why he wasn't there and she said he's in Phoenix running late again at another damn meeting.'

‘Your parents have been fighting?'

‘Oh, not fighting.' She seemed shocked by that suggestion. ‘My father would never . . . But they haven't been . . . communicating very well, either.'

‘Do you know what they're not communicating about?'

‘Not exactly. I'm not here all the time, you know, I'm in school. But I know Mom's been on one of her talking streaks, full of plans . . . all kinds of ideas. And Dad's been rushing around not listening to her, looking kind of . . . desperate. But he was supposed to be here for my birthday party yesterday. I heard her tell him, be sure you get back by three on Sunday for Patsy's party, and he promised he would. But he never showed.'

Delaney cleared his throat behind them. Patricia looked around and asked him, ‘What?' When he didn't respond she turned to Sarah and said, ‘I guess the other policeman wants me to leave.'

‘Yeah, but wait a minute,' Sarah said. ‘I need a number for your father – and one for you.' She glanced quickly at Delaney, who was puffing up, turning pink. ‘Let's step into the next room there and you give me some numbers.'

They went into the small bedroom where Patricia had so recently thrown a fit of hysterics. She seemed to have put all that behind her now. Ignoring the woman from Victim's Services who still sat there waiting in her plain blue suit, she stood by Sarah's shoulder and reeled off letters and numbers. Her own cell phone and email address, first, and then a whole row of ways to reach her father. Roger Henderson had two companies, each with an office number, secretary, fax, and had his own cell phone and pager besides.

‘But all you really need for Dad during business hours is that first number, the Hen-Trax phone. You'll get Ruth, his faithful slave, and she'll find him if he's alive on this planet. She can find him on any job site, or on the road . . . get Ruth on the job, if she decides your reason's good enough pretty soon you'll be talking to Daddy.' A testament to teenage resilience, she tossed off this easy-going irony while the tears of her horrified meltdown were still damp in the rug where she stood.

When she finished the numbers recital she pushed her hair back, took a deep breath and said, ‘Look, don't be misled by that . . . sordid scene in there.' Her voice wobbled again on the last few words and Sarah watched her carefully, afraid she was losing it again. But she seemed determined to make this difficult statement. ‘My mother's been orbiting the moon more than usual lately –' she was looking into the corner now and her voice had gone up a notch – ‘but this is the first time I've ever known her to bring one of her toy boys home. My parents have some . . . problems in their marriage, naturally, due to her . . . the way she is. But they're – we're all very solid citizens and we're a family.'

‘I see,' Sarah said, although she didn't. ‘Thank you, Patricia. I know that wasn't easy to say. And now that you've helped us so much I'm going to turn you over to Victim's Services, and get you some help. This is Ellen.'

Ellen put out her hand and murmured, ‘I'm sorry for your loss.'

‘Ellen will take you wherever you want to go. Do you have relatives in Tucson?'

‘I don't need a ride.' Patricia looked surprised. ‘I have my own car.'

‘Well, but you've had such a bad shock,' Ellen said. She had all the requisite skills, the kindly face and voice her job description promised. ‘Do you think it's wise for you to drive?'

‘Of course I can drive.' Patricia Henderson's expression made it plain that being too overwhelmed to operate heavy equipment was for craven wimps, a group in which she never expected to find herself. ‘And I think I'll go to Aunt Bella's house, I don't want her to hear about this on the radio. I'll keep trying to find my father too,' she told Sarah, her voice steady again, ‘but if you see him first will you tell him to call me?'

‘Of course,' Sarah said. ‘And here, take my card, it's got all my numbers. Call me if there's anything else I can do.' Thinking again that this girl was only a few years older than her niece, she said, ‘Can you stay with your aunt for a few days?'

‘Sure. Her or Aunt Louise, they both live close to here.'

‘Do you need help locating other family members?' Ellen asked her.

‘No. My brother Adam's at a prep school in Boston . . . I hope,' she added, half to herself. ‘I'll call him as soon as I decide how to say it.' She looked momentarily white and forlorn, then made one of the supreme efforts of will that seemed to be her specialty. ‘I'll do it soon.'

‘Very good,' Sarah said. She felt surrounded by rocks she didn't have time to turn over. ‘Patricia, won't you at least talk to Ellen about counseling? It's a free service offered to everyone, you're entitled to—'

Looking at Sarah as if she had made an obscene suggestion involving body parts, Patricia said, ‘
Counseling?
' She took the card Ellen pressed into her hand and bolted down the stairs without another word.

Sarah heard Ray Menendez, at the foot of the stairs, say, ‘Ms Henderson? There's a nice lady out at the tapeline in front, says her name is Maria and she works for your mother. Could you speak to her?' There was a murmured response from Patricia and then Ray's voice again, nearer the front door, said, ‘Here, I'll walk out with you. Why don't I give you my card now too, so in case you think of anything you want to tell us or ask us later you can call me?'

Well, for what it's worth she's got plenty of cards now.
A young girl who just found her mother cruelly murdered should have people around her for comfort, not cards. And then another unwelcome thought:
Menendez, are you putting the moves on that girl?

He wouldn't. She'd worked cases with him for two years, he was as straight as anybody she knew. A beautiful young girl surrounded by riches, though, and in distress now, it had a kind of dark glitter about it. The best thing for all of them, Sarah thought urgently, was to find Patricia's father.

Looking down the list of numbers Patricia had given her, she shrugged and dialed the cell phone, let it ring five times, and punched
END
.
What kind of busy executive keeps his cell phone turned on but doesn't answer it?

She went back in the master bedroom and told Delaney, ‘Roger Henderson's cell doesn't answer. It kind of creeps me out that he hasn't turned up.'

‘Me too,' Delaney said, ‘I want to see him
and
his guns.'

‘Is somebody checking the house for weapons?'

‘I sent Peete to go through all the cupboards. Next I'd like to ID the stranger in the bed.' He looked around. ‘Where's Gloria?'

‘Here in the closet,' Gloria said, not coming out.

‘You didn't fingerprint the victims, did you?'

‘Well, no, won't they do that in the autopsy?'

‘Sure, but now that we know the second victim's not the husband, we'd like to find out who he is. Was.'

‘Come on, he'll still be dead tomorrow.' Gloria had been in the lab long enough to pick up some very bad jokes.

Delaney was not amused. ‘Come out of there right now, Gloria.' He watched her coldly as she emerged, sulky-faced. But his anger crumbled when he saw the bright silk belt that had tangled in her tousled curls. He plucked it off her head grinning and said, ‘Get your butt over there and print that male victim
right now
before the ME and the transport people get here. And then I want,' he swiveled away from her, looking around, ‘let's see, where's Greenaway?'

‘On the street, talking to the neighbors,' Ray Menendez said, walking in.

‘OK. Why aren't you?'

‘I was helping Sarah with that distressed young woman,' Menendez said. ‘And then I – what do you want?'

‘Help Gloria print this male victim,' Delaney said, frowning to let Menendez know his answer wasn't good enough. ‘And then run the prints down to the lab. At once! No time to fool around here!'

‘Who's fooling around?' Menendez said, frowning back. ‘Not me.'

The ME walked in with his bag and began harassing Gloria. Why was she fingerprinting this body here, getting in his way? She rolled her eyes silently toward Delaney, who said, ‘I told her to do it, she'll be done in just a sec,' and stared down the doc, refusing to explain further. The transport people were waiting in the hall with their gear, and a public-information officer was downstairs, demanding facts for the early news cycle. Annoyed by how chaotic and noisy the scene was getting, Delaney asked Tobin, who was still measuring and muttering over his drawing pad, ‘How about it, you just about done with that sketch?'

‘Pretty close,' Tobin said, without looking up. He had more than twenty years of overstressed sergeants behind him; his calm was unshakeable.

‘Well, soon as you can,' Delaney said, softening his tone, ‘go on down and give that info guy just enough to get him out of here, will you? And Sarah, hook up with Ollie out there and help him canvass those neighbors before they talk to each other any more. I'll keep after the husband and then – where in the hell is Cifuentes, does anybody know?'

Sarah walked down the stairs and out into a pink dawn in a busy yard. On the steps behind her, she heard Leo Tobin say, ‘All we can say so far is two victims of traumatic death here. No ID pending notification of family members, no other details as yet.' And then, coldly, taking his irritation at Delaney out on the hapless reporter, ‘What part of no don't you understand?'

The reporter would get something on the air, though, a picture of the house from the street, the reporter standing in front repeating the nothing she knew in three or four different ways. Secretaries in both Roger Henderson's offices, probably, bankers and business associates and friends would turn on their TV sets, and soon the whole town would know, maybe before Roger Henderson did, that there was trouble at his house.

She heard the click of a timer and the fountain came on as she passed it. Water bubbled up gaily and fell into its elegant brick-and-tile basin, striking a discordant note in this grim scene.

At the tape, Frankie Lopez was telling the photographer from the TV truck in front of him that they could not park their van there, the street had to be kept clear for police business and no, media was absolutely not allowed across this line. As Sarah navigated the busy street she saw Cifuentes, far down the block, nosing his department vehicle into a mini-space at the corner.