Satan’s Lambs (34 page)

“Violetta goes right up to my father, telling him, in a nice way, all the stuff that's gone wrong on her stay. Daddy always laughs about the things she told him. He always says how she was even charming about her insults. Then she tells him how she had to save for the workshop, and it's a big deal as far as she's concerned, and one thing leads to another, and Daddy winds up taking Violetta to lunch. His excuse is that she can give him suggestions on what he needs to do to renovate the hotel.” Miranda laughed, and crossed her feet. “As if Daddy needs help in business. But she's from this small town in Kentucky, and really thinks he wants her opinion. It's romantic, isn't it? Like one of those old movies with Audrey Hepburn or Cary Grant.”

I admitted to being a Cary Grant fan.

Miranda tilted her head to one side, staring down at the floor. “Just think how everything would have been so different, if my dad hadn't been walking through that hotel lobby at that exact moment. They probably never would have met. I would have finished growing up in Pittsburgh, instead of Danville.”

“I didn't realize your dad ever lived around here.”

“Violetta was a Kentucky girl, and she wouldn't live in Pittsburgh. So dad bought a place in Danville, and just commuted back and forth. He can do a lot of his business from an office at the house. He moved back to Pittsburgh after Violetta died.”

“How long has Cheryl's mother been dead?”

“Four years. I was sixteen, and Cheryl was eighteen. I lost two mothers before I was twenty, which is pretty sad when you think about it. And both of them died of breast cancer, isn't that weird?”

“And your father moved the two of you back to Pittsburgh?”

“Daddy waited about six months, so Cheryl could finish her senior year at Danville High School. And he didn't want me to have to move in the middle of the year. He was worried about how I'd adjust. He just kept the status quo for a while for both of us, because of Violetta and all. Then when Cheryl graduated, and wanted to go to EKU, Daddy decided to go back to Pittsburgh. Cheryl could have come with us, but she wanted EKU because of the law enforcement thing.”

“But you came back to Kentucky?”

“Yeah, it's weird, isn't it? Because I had been dying to get back to Pittsburgh. But a place is never the same after you go away and come back. And Daddy was busy working and getting engaged again, and I was missing my sister, so I came back here to go to college.”

“You go to UK?”

“No. I started at Centre in Danville.”

“Good school.”

“Yeah, but it wasn't a good match for me. My grades were a little … disappointing. Probably a freshman adjustment thing, Daddy says. My passion—my absolute passion—is art history. I already know how I'm going to make my mark. I want to open a gallery in Pittsburgh, not in L.A. or New York, and I'm going to find artists that nobody has any interest in, but that are really good, and I'm only going to sell their stuff. Every piece of art in the gallery will be from one of my personal discoveries. Once that gets started, then new artists will come to me, and the buyers will come to me because I'll be cutting-edge, because they'll know that I have the sensibility to appreciate what is true, you know? Art from the heart, I call it. I think that's what I'm going to name my gallery.” The far-off look in Miranda's eyes faded. “But anyway, to answer your question, I'm taking the semester off and then next fall I'm going to enroll at Transy.”

“Another good school,” I said. Centre College and Transylvania University were private liberal arts schools, both with hefty price tags.

“And Daddy's paying all of Cheryl's tuition, too. He didn't adopt her or anything, but he treats her just like a real daughter. And he was glad, too, that I had someone who could kind of look out for me, going away to school for the first time and all.”

“It looks like somebody should have been looking out for Cheryl.”

Miranda slumped in the chair. “My dad isn't going to stop until he finds out every detail of what happened to my sister. Daddy was proud of her, he bragged on her all the time. And he isn't going to put up with her disappearance being written off as some dumb coed shacking up with a married loser and getting killed.”

“You do realize that it looks like that's exactly what did happen?”

“That's only because no one gets Cheryl. And anyway, I'm her sister. She wasn't having an affair with Cory Edgers. She would have told me for sure.”

“You were close?”

“Oh, extremely. I used to introduce her to my friends, and include her in things, because sometimes Cheryl could get a little housebound. She was like, one day confident, and the next day a mess. We were good for each other; we were real sisters.”

“Did she ever talk about Edgers?”

“Sure she did. All the time. They were both kind of outsiders, there, in the ATF office. She's a college student, doing an internship. He's a sheriff from London, Kentucky, on loan to some kind of task force. My sister was smart and opinionated and always had a million questions, and Cory Edgers was encouraging her; he showed her the ropes. Believe me, if there was more to it than that I would have known. I told the police all this, but I don't think they believed me.”

I could confirm that observation. It was frustrating being relegated to the sidelines, listening to Joel's theories about the case. I had a few ideas of my own, hunches I would have followed up, and it was tedious just to hang on the fringe, while Joel nodded and ignored everything I said. As a matter of fact, I was kind of ticked at the way he had dismissed my opinions, as if I didn't deal with this sort of thing every working day. I took a moment to indulge the thought of getting to the bottom of Cheryl Dunkirk's disappearance, and passing the killer on to Joel.

But that was no excuse for misleading a client.

“My point is, Miranda, I need to make sure you and your father understand that I'm unlikely to come up with anything the police haven't already. They're giving this everything they've got.”

“That may be so, but they're not sharing any of it with my dad.”

And this, of course, was the clincher; this convinced me I could contribute without misleading Miranda and Paul Ellis Brady. By necessity the police had to shut the family out, but I'd been the family, and it's a frustration I remembered very well. I caught the shrewd look in Miranda's eyes, and I knew that she realized I was hooked.

“Okay then, Miranda. You know what I can't do for you; here's what I
can
do. If nothing else, I bring a fresh viewpoint, and I'll look at some things differently than the police will. I won't withhold any information. Whatever I find out, I'll tell you, provided that's what you want.”

“Why wouldn't I want it?”

“It means I won't censor anything to protect your feelings; it means I'll give it to you straight. But you better think about the possibility that there may be details you don't want to hear.”

“I want to hear everything. I want to know. The things I imagine … look, you know how I feel. Chick Ryder told me what happened to your sister. So you know what it's like, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You're the closest thing to a peer I've got, did you ever think of that?”

I had thought of that. It was one reason I wanted the job.

“So no holding back no matter what. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” I said.

Miranda leaned across the floor to shake my hand. I might waste her father's money, but I'd give him some sort of control and satisfy his conscience, if I accomplished nothing else.

“Now what?” Miranda said.

“The first thing I'm going to tell you is that I'm almost positive Cheryl is dead.”

Miranda chewed the nail of her little finger. “But you can't really know that.”

“You know the police found her car, right?”

“It was still in the parking lot at her apartment. That's what they told me.”

“The police think Cheryl was killed in the car.”

Miranda's face lost color, and I stood up.

“I'm okay,” she said, but she wasn't.

I went into the kitchen and took a bottle of the Dasani Joel had stashed in the fridge. There were no glasses, so I unscrewed the cap and took her the bottle.

“Water?”

“Thanks.”

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“I don't like coffee. This is fine, really, I'm okay.”

“Why don't we call it quits for today, and I'll give your father a call tonight.”

Miranda covered her eyes with her hands. “Don't do that to me, don't call my dad. This is as important to me as it is to him, sometimes I think more important. I'm the one who's here, you know? He's up in Pittsburgh, working and getting fitted for a tux.”

“All right, then. I won't shut you out. I expect you to tell me if it gets to be too much.”

“Is there any way I can take a look at the car? I want to know what the police see when they look at it. I want to know what it is that makes you so sure Cheryl's dead. I need to know, one way or the other.”

I considered. It was pretty far on the rogue side, but I knew how being shut out feels. Sometimes you can't believe things until you can see them, or touch them, to make them real. And the car was the last point of contact, the place where Cheryl Dunkirk died. I could take Miranda right now, if I wanted to. And if she was sure she wanted to go.

She said yes, of course. That's what sisters do.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Miranda was childishly pleased with my beat-up Miata, though she said that, like Cheryl, she was a Mustang girl herself. She didn't think twice when I suggested we ride together, and there was no reason to point out that after seeing her sister's car, she might be in no shape to drive herself home. Miranda didn't even ask where the car was. She had yet to grow out of the childish expectation that she would be taken care of by the grown-ups in charge.

I had to think about where I was going, the twists and turns of the neighborhood were new, but once I was on Tates Creek Pike, I was back in familiar territory. I headed east toward downtown and that magical place where the road changed its name to Euclid. Lexington, like many cities, often succumbs to the schizophrenic habit of changing street names from one side of an intersection to another.

Miranda peeled the cuticles on the fingers of her left hand and stared quietly out the window. Having her in the car felt like taking a nervous dog for a drive.

I'd left Paul Brady's check covering a twenty-five hundred dollar retainer by the kitchen sink. Real money strikes a note of reverence when you see as little of it as I do. Clients like Paul Brady don't come along often enough. I wondered if I would have agreed to take Miranda to see her sister's car without that check. I decided I would have no matter what. I also decided Joel would be furious if he knew. I'd have to make sure he never did. The thought gave me a pang, as if I had put some distance between us.

The rain started up again, and I veered around deep puddles, cursing the SUVs that sprayed mud on my windshield. I muttered quietly so Miranda wouldn't hear. Joel says I am an aggressive driver, but I think he's just not used to the passenger's seat.

Traffic moved like slow agony on Main Street. The stoplights were flashing yellow. In a perfect world this would mean that each intersection would be treated as a four-way stop, but actually meant every man for himself. A drop of water splashed Miranda's left shoulder, and I noticed that the duct tape I had used to repair the tear in the roof was sagging with condensation.

I reached around the back of my seat for the semiclean navy blue towel I had stashed, and passed it to Miranda. I pointed to the roof and the drips. She shrugged and wadded the towel in a ball, holding it like a pressure bandage against her stomach. She'd run out of conversation.

The corner of Broadway had turned into a lake, and water fanned both sides of the Miata, coating the plastic slit that serves as the back window with mud. Traffic was thinning, and the stoplights ahead were functional as downtown Lexington petered out into storage units, discount gas stations, strip malls, and vacant buildings. Traffic picked up again once we headed east on Leestown Road. We were almost there.

Miranda's sister Cheryl drove a vintage '64 Mustang, navy blue with rust spots. It was out of sight and out of reach behind a chain-link fence topped with three separate strands of barbed wire. I pulled the Miata across a gravel drive, getting as far to the right as possible.

“Is it too muddy over there for you to get out, Miranda? I can pull up some more if you want.”

“This is fine,” she said, without looking.

I let it go. She had boots, and the mud was near impossible to miss. “Stay put for a minute.”

She didn't answer or look my way, and I gave her a second look, wondering if this was such a good idea.

But we were parked, and I could see the uniform out of the corner of my eye, and I was going to have to get out and talk to him no matter what. The rain fell steadily, and I grabbed a ball cap from behind my seat, and left Miranda alone in the car. I'm not sure she noticed me leave.

“Hey, Chris McFee, how you been?” I was in luck. I knew this guy.

McFee wore a plastic cover over his hat, and a poncho over his uniform. He stood in front of the chain-link gate, oblivious to the rain. This meant I had to be oblivious, too, since Chris had left the dry comfort of his little wood hut to see to my business.

“Hell, Lena. I didn't recognize you with your hair stuffed up in that hat. You a Steelers fan now?”

“This?” I flicked a finger at the bill of my cap. “Got it from a grateful client.”

“Spoils of war?”

“Don't knock it. I got a jersey, a jacket, and season tickets that brought me a nice sum on eBay.”