If that was the way it had gone down, if there was even the possibility of a connection between Longtree and the murder, he should notify Lawson immediately. But what would he tell him, that he had a hunch he'd been set up?
Before he could decide on his next course of action, the telephone rang again. The old boy in the braids didn't waste any time, did he? Chief snatched up the receiver. "More threats, Longtree?"
"Who's Longtree and what's he threatening?"
It was Lawson.
"Never mind," Chief mumbled.
"Who—"
"The old man I was having breakfast with. It's ... business," he said impatiently. "Complicated. Nothing to do with anything else. What do you want?"
"We found him."
"Who?"
"The weirdo you described."
Switching the gears in his mind took a second or two. He lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa and digested this new information.
Lawson continued, "His name is Dale Gordon. He works at the Waters Clinic. I gave the staff there your description, and they identified him."
"Did you question him? What's his story?"
"He wasn't there. Left a message on the office voice mail early this morning that he was sick and wasn't coming to work. I'm on my way to his place now."
"I hope it pans out. Good luck."
"I'd like you to be there."
"Me? Why?"
"Before I question some perfectly innocent sucker, I want to make sure he's the guy who spoke to you and Gillian." "Isn't that what a lineup is for?"
"That would entail an arrest. This weird duck you described wasn't seen leaving the scene of the murder. At this point, he's not a suspect. Officially."
"In other words, you want me there—
officially
—to cover your ass in case you've got the wrong guy."
"I knew you'd understand. We're pulling into The Mansion's driveway now. You ready?"
"Good afternoon. The Waters Clinic," said the pleasant voice.
"Hello, my name is Melina Lloyd. I need to speak to a Detective Lawson with the Dallas Police Department. He's supposed to be there. May I speak with him, please?" After a significant silence, she added, "I tried calling his cell phone, but apparently it's malfunctioning. It's very important that I speak with him."
With obvious reluctance, the receptionist said, "He was here with another policeman."
"Was?"
"They left about fifteen minutes ago."
"Did he take Mr. Gordon into custody?"
"What did you say your name was?"
"Melina Lloyd."
"I really don't know anything about this, Ms. Lloyd."
"My sister was the victim of the crime the detective is investigating. Did they take Mr. Gordon into custody or not?"
She had learned one thing today: Grief took different forms in different people. Jem was disconsolate, most of the time moving around as though he were in a mental and emotional fog, but also exhibiting periodic bouts of instability, like his violent attack on Christopher Hart. He seemed to welcome the solace of friends, while she had found it claustrophobic to be constantly surrounded by people wanting to wait on her. To escape, she again had retreated to the bedroom with the excuse of taking a nap.
She had lain down on the bed, but to no avail. Her eyes were gritty from so much crying and even closing them caused discomfort. Sleep was out of the question. Furthermore, her own vow for vengeance compelled her to act, not languish.
But what could she do? Disinclined to rejoin the others in the living room and kitchen, where there was an ever-growing amount of casseroles and congealed salads, she had paced the bedroom until she couldn't stand not knowing what progress, if any, Lawson was making. She knew the detective probably wouldn't welcome her interference, but she hadn't counted on catching flak from a receptionist at the Waters Clinic.
"Well?"
"They didn't take Dale—Mr. Gordon—into custody. He wasn't here. He called in sick this morning. I think that detective was going to his house from here." Lowering her voice, she asked, "What'd he do?"
Ignoring the question, she asked for Dale Gordon's home address. "It must be in his employee file."
"I'm sorry. I can't give out that information."
"Please." But she was talking to a dead line. "Damn."
She sat down on the edge of the bed and hung her head so low that her chin almost touched her chest. God, she was tired. Exhausted. Between her shoulder blades the muscles burned with tension and fatigue.
Maybe she should heed the advice of friends and take a sleeping pill. Two. Three. However many it took to knock her out. Total forgetfulness would be bliss.
But that was the coward's way out.
Like lying
, she thought sourly. At least she had derived some comfort from Christopher Hart's abashed expression when he knew he'd been trapped in his lie.
But that was an avenue of thought that she didn't wish to explore right now, so she returned to the debate over the sleeping pill. What would drugging herself solve? Nothing. It wouldn't relieve her of having to deal with her sister's death; it would only postpone it. Besides, she hadn't earned a state of oblivion yet. She had much to do before she merited escape. But what could she do?
Then she had an idea. Kneeling in front of the nightstand, she opened the second drawer, found what she was looking for, and dragged the large book onto her lap.
"Gordon?" Lawson tapped again on the man's front door. When he received no answer to the second summons, he
asked the officer accompanying him to call Gordon's phone number.
Keating had been newly assigned to Homicide. He was anxious to do well, especially in front of a veteran like Lawson. "I have. Twice. No answer."
"Car's here," Lawson noted. "What'd she say?"
He motioned toward the elderly lady who lived in the larger house to which the garage apartment belonged. She was standing on her back porch, leaning on a walker, watching
with curiosity and suspicion while a Pomeranian yapped noisily at her ankles.
"She's his landlady," Keating reported. "Hasn't seen him
today. Says he's usually at work during the day and doesn't come home until six or better. He stays home only on weekends. Highly irregular for him to be at home on a weekday."
"He live alone?"
"Yeah, and no friends. She's never seen him with anybody.
Says he's quiet, pays his rent on time, only complains when
the dog messes too close to his apartment."
"I was him, I’d've shot that goddamn mutt a long time ago."
Chief, who'd been following the conversation from a few
feet away, agreed with Lawson. He was an animal lover and certainly didn't advocate inhumane treatment, but the miniature dog's shrill barks were like nails being driven into his
eardrums.
Evidently making up his mind, Lawson said, "I'm going in.
Get her inside." Keating jogged back to the old lady and, ignoring her protests, ushered her back into her house. Picking up the dog, he practically tossed it inside after her. "Hart,
take cover. He might be waiting on us."
Chief moved behind the unmarked police car they'd come
in. It was like watching a movie as the two detectives, with weapons drawn, took up positions on either side of the door. Lawson called out Gordon's name again, but when there was no response, he gave the flimsy door one swift kick, and it
swung open.
The two detectives rushed in. Chief braced himself to hear
a hail of gunshots but heard only the two cops shouting the all-clear to each other. Then for several minutes there was nothing but silence from the garage apartment and the
muted barking of the dog from within the main house. Eventually Lawson appeared in the open doorway. "Hart?"
He motioned Chief forward. Chief noted that Lawson's nine-millimeter had been replaced in its holster.
"He's offed himself," Lawson told him. "It's not pretty, but I'd like you to take a look for ID purposes. From the looks of his place here, he was one sick puppy." He turned back into the house, saying over his shoulder, "Don't touch anything." Then he stopped and faced Chief. "You don't have a weak stomach, do you?"
"I survived the Vomit Comet."
"Yeah, well, this'll make that seem like a day at the beach." Under his breath, Lawson added, "I've seen more than my quota of blood today, that's for fucking sure."
The small apartment was stifling inside and smelled like a meat locker. It was soon apparent why. As Lawson had warned, there was a lot of blood.
Dale Gordon lay face up on the floor in front of what appeared to be an altar of some sort.. His body formed a cross, with his arms extending straight out from his shoulders, palms up, his feet overlapping. He had slashed his wrists. Near the body, a wicked-looking knife was lying on the floor, along with his eyeglasses, as though he had removed them as an afterthought before assuming the Christ-like position. He was naked.
Lawson looked over at Chief. "That him?"
Chief gave a brusque nod. In the distance he heard a siren, signaling the approach of an ambulance.
"Lawson?" Keating stepped out from behind a curtain partition. He was holding a pair of boxer shorts in his gloved hands. "These match the pajama top you found in the Lloyd woman's bedroom?"
Lawson sighed in disgust. "His souvenir."
Keating extended them so that both Lawson and Chief could see the dried residue on the fabric.
Chief's stomach clenched. Swearing, he pressed his fingertips into his eye sockets and rubbed them hard, trying to wipe out the image of the soiled garment.
Lawson asked Keating if he'd found anything else.
"Still looking." After bagging the pajamas as evidence, he returned to searching other parts of the apartment.
To divert his mind, Chief asked, "Is that the knife he used on Gillian?"
"The bloodstains on it will be tested against hers. And as soon as I get the ME's report, I'll know if the wounds are consistent with this type blade. I'm betting yes to both. He's our
man."
Chief looked across at him, knowing there was more he was holding back."What?"
"This was one disturbed dude," the detective admitted with a frown. "Before I called you in, we found a whole file of stuff on Gillian Lloyd, along with pictures of her. Inside there." He indicated the chest that had served as Gordon's altar.
"Pictures?"
"Candid shots that she didn't know were being taken. While she was in the examination room of the clinic." "Jesus."
"Yeah, that, too," Lawson said wryly. "He was some kind of religious freak. Look at all this stuff. More candles than church. Icons. A whip with blood on it. Ten to one it's his blood. A collection of apocalyptic literature. Real spooky shit. Looks to me like he was a man in conflict. A religious fanatic with a hard-on for Gillian Lloyd. He couldn't handle it."
"Especially after he saw her with me."
"I guess," Lawson mused. "He saw her at the clinic. Became obsessed with her. Built his sexual fantasies around her. Then he spotted her with you last night. Got jealous, freaked out. Solved the problem of not having her for himself by killing her."
A mournful groan brought both men around. Melina Lloyd was standing behind them. By her expression, Chief could tell that she'd heard at least a portion of Lawson's summation.
The detective asked what the hell she was doing there. Chief took her by the shoulders and tried to back her through
the door. She resisted. "Is he the one who killed her? Why? Why?"
"You shouldn't have come here," Lawson said sternly. "Outside. With me," Chief said, taking her arm.
"No!" She took a step toward the corpse, but he blocked her path. "I want to see his face!"
"How'd you get here?" Lawson demanded.
"Oh, it took some real detective work. I looked him up in the telephone directory. Get out of my way!" she cried when Chief again blocked her from advancing any farther into the room. She pushed hard against his chest. "I want to see him. I want to see her killer. I want to know he's dead."
"No question of that." Chief covered her hands with his. "Melina, please." He continued to struggle with her until she seemed to lose her will to fight. At the first sign of her relenting, he hustled her outside, where he gathered her against him. She collapsed onto his chest and began to sob dryly. He wrapped his arms around her for comfort and to protect her from the escalating chaos.
The wail of the siren died as an ambulance pulled into the driveway, where the Pomeranian was bouncing like an animated powder puff and emitting earsplitting barks. The old woman looked frightened and confused and got in the way of the paramedics as they rushed past her pushing a gurney. "Did something happen to Mr. Gordon?" she called after them.
Neighbors were congregating on the tree-shaded sidewalk. They were mostly retirement age. The real-life drama being played out was more entertaining than the afternoon talk shows on TV. The atmosphere was charged with excitement.