According to the accompanying report, the dress pattern came from an Internet company called Inspirational Woman, which sold clothing designed for the “modest woman and girl.” Laura recognized it from Ted Olsen’s list. She looked it up online. The dress, called “Winsome,” was a lot like the one that had been used for Jessica Parris, but there were a few differences. Alison’s dress was plainer, but it had an apron that looked as if it were part of the dress itself.
She scrolled down through the patterns and found Jessica’s dress at the bottom: It was called “Charity."
This was good. This was really good.
It got better. The faxes came through at a maddeningly slow pace: A photograph of the camera Alison had received in the mail, two photos of jewelry that seemed sophisticated for a twelve-year-old. But the last picture was the best find of all.
Scribbled on top was a notation by Endicott, saying that the original photo had been printed up on an inkjet and taped to Alison’s mirror. This was a black-and-white photocopy, a poor one—but enough to give her a thrill.
The man was in his early twenties. Dark, handsome, wearing casual but expensive clothing. He stood before a clapboard house on stilts. Scribbled across the bottom, barely legible in the photocopy, was a note.
“Forever True, James.”
This was the guy the Riverside Sheriff’s Department believed had corresponded with Alison Burns via the Internet. Unfortunately, they had no more information since Alison Burns didn’t have a computer. Endicott believed she had been contacted by this man during her time on the computer at the public library.
Laura stared at the man, putting herself in Alison Burns’ shoes. He did not look like a child molester. He looked like a gorgeous, rich, young guy who could fit the bill in the Prince Charming department.
The kind of guy who could lure a precocious twelve-year-old.
Laura looked at the house. The fact that it was on stilts indicated ocean-front property—a beach house? The house was clapboard, a light color, and a saw palmetto grew near the steps. The Gulf Coast? And the man’s tanned beauty, the professional quality of the photograph—this could be a photo from a model’s portfolio.
She grabbed her notebook and jotted these new developments down.
Alison Burns - similars
Dress patterns – Inspirational Woman
Motor home seen at Brewery Gulch
Motor home seen near primary crime scene
Digital camera, jewelry sent to Alison/Internet connection (?)
CRZYGRL12
The man in the photo—beach house?
Serial killer, organized type
Differences between Jessica and Alison: period of time kept, age, manner of death
Postmortem vs. antemortem
There were serious differences. The age difference, the method used to kill the victims, the fact that Alison was kept and raped for days and Jessica was alive only a few hours and raped postmortem.
Jessica Parris’s pubic area had been shaved. The dress the killer brought was too small—the ME saying that Jessica was an immature fourteen-year-old. Laura wondered—could he have realized his mistake after he picked her up? And would the fact that she was older than he expected ruin it for him?
If it did, he might take it out on her. He might strangle her instead of “ease her into sleep,” as Endicott had described it.
Laura was even more impressed by the similarities. She had always felt that the answer to this problem was on the Internet.
If the guy who killed Jessica also killed Alison, it would be easy enough to eliminate Chuck Lehman. All they had to do was verify where he was at the time of Alison’s death.
If it was the same killer.
Despite her doubts about Lehman, Laura added him to her list.
Lehman’s friendship with Cary and Jessica
Lip Bullets lipstick found in bedroom
Vacuumed, change sheets?
Safeway card found nearby
Screenplay about kidnap and murder of young girl
Porn
Lehman lied about relationship with Cary.
It was like looking at two different pictures. A strong case could be made either way.
Frustrated, she closed the notebook and stared out at the desert beyond her window. The answer, she knew, was in the cyber world.
She picked up Jay Ramsey’s card and made the call.
24
Wrought iron gates set into a seven-foot-high stone wall marked the entrance to the Alamo Farm on Fort Lowell Road. The last time she’d been here, the stone wall was waist-high and there were no gates. The trees beyond the wall were the same, though mature mesquite and Arizona walnut. As lush and healthy as she remembered.
As she approached the speaker set into the pole underneath the security camera, Laura buzzed her window down, looking at the wall. She couldn’t tell where the old section left off and the new one began. She did notice the embedded glass across the top.
The speaker crackled. “May I see some ID?” a voice asked.
Laura held up her badge toward the camera. She heard a whirr inside the camera, didn’t know what that was about. She waited for what seemed like eons before the gates rolled back and she could drive through.
The moment the wheels of her 4Runner touched onto the property, Laura’s stomach clenched. She should have known all those memories would come back. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, waiting, the cold seeping up through the seat of her jeans, her eyelids getting heavy.
Starting to fall asleep and not wanting to, because she’d been here three nights in a row and just knew the mare would foal tonight.
The lane headed south toward the river between the over-arching trees. Laura realized the wall and the gate were window-dressing—the property had deteriorated. It looked downright shabby.
The sound of a car engine jarring her from sleep. It scared her. She was safe on the Ramsey property, at least she thought she was, but her parents didn’t know she was here and Julie Marr had been kidnapped not far from here.
Laura noticed that some of the trees on Alamo Farm suffered the same fate as others along the Rillito River; a lowering water table as the city grew put them in deep distress. Bare limbs stuck up through the green summer growth, and the mesquites were snarled with mistletoe. The irrigation ditch alongside the road, once brimming with water, was dry. She’d heard on the news that Betsy Ramsey was killed in a car accident a couple of years ago. Clearly, no one had used the hunt course since then. It had dried up and blown away—the jump rails lying on the ground, their colors faded to the brown of the earth. A dusty halo of grass and high weeds poked up through the threadbare dirt.
The droning of the engine, coming closer.
Laura drove into an S turn bottoming out in a dark copse of mesquites and walnut trees. Now the lane ran parallel to Fort Lowell Road, going west. On one side was a windbreak of Aleppo pines, and on the other, a dry field. The white board fences remained, but the pastures where Thoroughbreds had once grazed were overgrown with more weeds.
Looking toward the end of the lane, she got a shock.
The stables were gone.
The big cottonwood tree—which gave the farm its name—remained, but the stables with their spacious box stalls and paddocks had been ripped out. Knocked down, bulldozed, scrap lumber stacked in a haphazard pile. Weeds growing up around a mountain of torn green asphalt shingles, splintered white wood, pipe fencing.