Reems pulled out a chrome Zippo lighter and lit the dead cigar. ‘How so?’
‘Pribilski got shot once in the heart, then multiple times in the crotch. That’s rage, not robbery.’
The chief deputy rocked back on his heels. ‘New leads are popping up all the time, just like this here,’ he said, nodding toward the row of cabins. ‘We just learned of a gray-haired gent who parks his car on Poor Farm Road, usually around midnight. According to one person, he was there Monday night into Tuesday.’
Ridl took out his notebook. ‘Was he alone, this man?’
‘Yes. Maybe he just likes to watch the moon, or maybe he likes to watch others. Or maybe he’s a wienie-wagger, bringing his privates out to delight in the night. We’ll find him.’
‘Not a local?’
‘Don’t even know that, yet.’
‘What else?’
‘There was a Pontiac on Poor Farm parked just ahead of Pribilski’s car.’
‘I thought it was a couple of guys in a heap, hassling a guy who owned a Pontiac at the Hacienda.’
Reems smiled, releasing a puff of smoke. ‘There you have it: we heard it both ways and more. We’re checking everything out.’
‘Along with every man or boy that ever went out with Betty Jo Dean?’
‘And every girl that went out with that Polish, and every boyfriend of every one of those girls. Problem with jealousy is that it’s everywhere. It’s a long list of leads we’ve got.’ He started walking toward the road.
‘You think you’ll ever find her?’ Ridl called after him.
Reems turned around. ‘Betty Jo’s reputed to have more than a touch of the Devil in her. I’ll settle for her being someplace safe, laughing her ass off, though at what I can’t yet imagine.’
Watching the chief deputy move silently away, he knew it would be a mistake to dismiss the man as a buffoon. The extra fifty pounds he was packing and the cigar jammed ridiculously into his pipe were camouflage. Clamp Reems was no bumpkin.
Likely as not, he was Betty Jo Dean’s best hope.
FOURTEEN
The landlady banged on his door rapidly. ‘Mr Ridl, Mr Ridl!’ she yelled.
For a moment, he fought the racket. He’d been soul deep in a sweet dream about a too-tall girl and the flavor of a kiss.
‘Hey, Mr Reporter!’
He sat up too fast, striking his head on the underbelly of a cargo plane, which then set the whole plastic squadron jangling like giant Chinese door beads.
‘They found her!’ she yelled above the clatter. ‘They found Betty Jo Dean!’
He stepped into his khakis. ‘Alive? She’s alive?’ he shouted, grabbing yesterday’s shirt and socks.
‘She’s-’ Her words disappeared in the beat of her orthopedic shoes thumping down the stairs.
He stepped into his unlaced Pumas, grabbed his notepad and banged down after her. The wall clock at the base of the stairs said it was eight-fifteen.
Blanche, the bearer of all news, was again seated at the kitchen table. A quick glance at the look on both their faces told him what they didn’t want to say.
He’d stayed another night; of course he had. And now he was going to hear what he’d begun to hope he never would. He busied himself too long pouring a cup of coffee before joining them at the table.
‘Dennis Poe found her at around five-thirty this morning,’ Blanche said. ‘He was running empty up the Devil’s Backbone to pick up a load at the materials plant.’
He remembered the road. He’d helped search there yesterday. ‘That’s a half-mile west of the Wren House, right?’
Blanche nodded. ‘The Devil’s Backbone is narrow, and it’s custom for the empty truck to make way for someone coming out full. Dennis pulled over to let a full truck pass. He smelled or saw something in the weeds, and hightailed it ahead to the plant to call the sheriff. Delbert Milner got there in five minutes flat.’
‘Smelled?’ Something oily worked up the back of his throat. ‘Surely you’re not saying she’d been out in the heat for some-?’
Blanche raised her hand, stopping him. ‘Maybe it’s just that Dennis Poe saw her from the cab of his truck.’
He ran for the door.
Two sheriff’s cruisers blocked traffic from turning onto Big Pine Road. He left his car by the Wren House and walked the short half-mile to the dozen cop cars clustered at the base of the Devil’s Backbone.
Fifty onlookers had gathered around a deputy. Ridl snapped a couple of photos, not necessarily looking through the lens for a tall girl, and started up the access road.
‘No press,’ the deputy said.
He stepped back and took pictures of the men standing loosely together thirty yards up the Devil’s Backbone. He recognized the exact spot because it was next to a twisted, half-dead tree – the only tree within a hundred yards. He’d searched under that tree, with others, the day before.
He turned to the deputy. ‘Her body was found under that tree?’ he asked, disbelieving.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure: under that tree?’
The cop nodded.
‘She still there?’ he asked.
The deputy glanced uneasily up the Devil’s Backbone. No one was looking back. ‘I heard she was in bad shape,’ he said. ‘Clamp took one look and had Mr Wiley take her to his funeral home.’
‘How bad?’
‘Shot once in the back of the head, clothes thrown down on top of her like rags, then out for two days in this heat? Bad enough, I’d say.’
‘Two days? You’re sure – under that tree, for two days?’
‘That tree is mostly dead and doesn’t throw off much shade, if that’s what you’re wondering. Like I said, once Clamp saw the decomp, he had Mr Wiley quick take her out of there.’
‘You said she was nude?’
‘Partially.’
‘The sheriff will hold a press conference?’
‘Maybe not Delbert.’
‘Milner isn’t there?’ He looked up the few yards again.
‘He got taken sick suddenly and left. Look, Mister, anything else you need, ask Clamp.’
Ridl raised his camera and took another photo of the men up the road, standing beneath the tree where so many people had searched just the day before.
Word spread fast. Television news vans from Rockford, East Moline and Dubuque were parked close when he got back to the courthouse, and he supposed it was print reporters who were jamming the phone booths out front. He drove across the river to the pay phone he remembered in the Hacienda’s parking lot. He lit a cigarette after he’d fed in the dimes.
Eddings started yelling as soon as he picked up, culminating in, ‘And thanks again for not showing up for work this morning.’
‘This is bigger than you thought,’ he said when the editor paused to gulp air. ‘A man gets killed at one in the morning on Tuesday, then his date shows up dead on Thursday in a field that was thoroughly searched on Wednesday.’
‘You’re missing the point of why you’re there.’
‘They’re having a press conference.’
‘Have you excited any potential advertisers?’
‘Only sheriff’s deputies.’ He told Eddings about the tickets he’d collected.
‘Trying to run you out?’
‘That’ll end. There’s press everywhere, now.’
‘When’s the damned press conference?’
‘I might stick around afterward. Something’s real wrong here, Eddings.’
‘Yeah. Two dead and three tickets.’
‘More than that.’
‘Because you think the girl was dumped later?’
‘Or freshly killed after being held for forty-eight hours.’
‘What if I threaten to fire you?’
‘You won’t find anyone as good with dyed cats.’
‘On my desk tomorrow, Jonah,’ Eddings said, and hung up.
He opened the phone booth door, lit another cigarette and savored a play on words: Jonah Ridl had risen from two dead.
FIFTEEN
Late that afternoon, a hand reached from the throng of people going up the stairs and grabbed his forearm. It was Laurel. She’d gotten dressed up for the press conference, sort of. She still wore cut-offs, but she’d traded her university T-shirt for a white blouse, and was wearing lipstick that wasn’t at all necessary.