Nobody Cares, page 4
“Blocked from even a cop,” Paul observed.
“Feds,” Joe Bob said. “Why would a fed be stalking her?”
Paul didn’t know. There were a lot of feds in Alaska. He decided lunch was now in order, and he headed into Talkeetna to see if Dace wanted to eat lunch at the Roadhouse. He drove the 15 miles of the Talkeetna spur on autopilot, until he got close to town. Then he slowed to a crawl and paid close attention. Damned tourists.
He pulled into Purdue’s Flight Service. The office was basically a shed made of galvanized steel sheets, but Dace had added some planting boxes in front this spring and there were still flowers blooming in them. They were cheerful, but the office building? Still looked like the ramshackle shed it was.
Inside, the room was gray: gray walls, gray linoleum, old, government-surplus gray desks. And maps tacked up on the walls for decoration. Too bad Lanky wasn’t into hanging autographed photos, he’d carried some big names up Denali over the years.
Dace looked up from her computer and smiled at him. “Hi,” she said, almost shyly.
“Hi,” Paul said, smiling back. “I thought you’d like to go to the Roadhouse for lunch.”
She nodded, and picked up a walkie-talkie from the desk, an old cumbersome one, and told Lanky that she was going to lunch. She stuffed it in her backpack and headed out the door.
“Gotta leave before someone suddenly realizes they need something,” she said. “Amazing how they never think of it until I’m headed out.”
He laughed. He opened the door of his Corvette for her, and she looked at him a bit skeptically before getting in. He got in his side, started the car, and drove carefully down Main Street, letting tourists, kids and bicyclists dodge around him. And even a stray dog.
Dace laughed at the expression on his face. “We could have walked,” she observed. “Or do you need to get back?”
“Kind of,” he said, as he parked on the side street and locked the car. One of the Abbott kids had gotten in it once, and he’d become the only person in Talkeetna that locked his car even when it wasn’t tourist season.
“Are you going to Anchorage to pursue this case?” she asked, as they found seats at the large plank table. Paul guided her so that they were both sitting together backs to the wall. The waitress brought them menus.
“Tomorrow,” he answered, looking at the menu. He didn’t know why he bothered with the menu. He’d order the chili with a homemade roll, and pie for dessert. The waitress obviously didn’t know why either, as she wrote it all down before he could even give her his order. Dace laughed, and said same.
“I want to go with you,” she said.
“You’re welcome to,” he said slowly. “Why?”
She made some kind of design in the condensation left by her water glass, and didn’t meet his eyes. “It bothers me,” she admitted. “That nobody cares.”
“Yes,” he said. “Bothers me too. And it’s worse than Mary Ayek said.”
“You don’t read much fiction,” she said.
He shook his head. “Not unless it’s set in Alaska. I read Straley. But mostly I read books about Alaska. We’re weird enough.”
She laughed. She’d seen his collection of books about Alaska. Read a lot of them over the winter. “When I was in college I started reading science fiction — especially by women. Got intrigued, and soon I was ferreting out all the women who wrote science fiction especially those who wrote under male pennames, or used their initials. One of them was James Tiptree, Jr.”
“A woman?” he clarified.
She nodded. “She wrote this amazing short story about a woman and her adult daughter who are headed to vacation in Mexico. They’re the only ones in a small plane besides a government agent and pilot, when it crashes. And somehow, the two of them realize that there are aliens — aliens from space — also in the swamp where they crash. And they figure out a way to meet them, and eventually leave with them.
“But the key exchange is between the agent and the woman. She says that women in our society are like the possums who have managed to figure out ways to live unnoticed within our cities. Women see to it that things run smoothly, take care of so many things and no one even notices them. When the agent tries to stop her from leaving, she shakes him off, saying no one will notice she’s even gone. Think of us as possums, she says.
“So, when he’s rescued, he’s flying home, and he thinks, “Two of our possums are missing.”
Paul regarded her for a moment. She didn’t look up. “Is that how you felt?” he asked quietly.
She shrugged. “Maybe,” she said. “I wasn’t a very good possum, I’m afraid.”
She looked up at him. “But Paul, these women go unnoticed, don’t they? No one really sees them. And they’ve disappeared. For how long? And no one noticed?”
“I think we’ve got a predator,” Paul said abruptly, putting it into words for the first time. “And you’re right. I think he’s been picking off women no one paid any attention to when they disappeared. Native women, prostitutes, transients, women struggling with drugs and alcohol. But he finally chose someone who has someone who does care. Picked someone who calls Mary Ayek, ‘grandmother.’ And that was a mistake.”
“I can’t even understand how that happens,” she said. “There are people who are supposed to notice. To care.”
“In the late 1990s, a pig farmer in British Columbia is thought to have killed 49 women and fed their remains to his hogs,” he said. “He picked Indigenous women, and women who were poor, prostitutes, drug users. But mostly Indigenous women. And the cries of their families were dismissed. To Canada’s credit they opened up a major investigation into how crimes against women, and against Indigenous women were handled.”
“Jesus, 49?” she whispered. Paul nodded. “How many do you think this man has taken?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “And that’s the horror of it. We don’t know how many women he’s taken. Or for how long.”
“Because nobody cared,” she said.
He nodded. He pushed his pie away, and drank his coffee instead, and watched her out of the corner of his eye, as she processed it all.
“Dace? What happened to your science fiction collection?” he asked. “You could have them shipped up here. That’s an important collection.” Did he sound like the son of an English literature professor? Why yes, yes, he did, he thought amused.
She shook her head. “Stephen had them thrown out,” she said, referring to her now-dead and unlamented husband. “I told you, I wasn’t very good at being a possum able to pass unnoticed. I did something he disapproved of, I don’t remember what, and he punished me by having the maid dispose of them. They were tacky he said, unbecoming to the household, and could I please try a little harder to act like I didn’t come from some trailer park? Which wasn’t even true, but that wasn’t the point.”
Paul’s eyes burned. “I’m sorry,” he said simply.
She smiled. “I might have to shop a few used books stores one of these days,” she said.
“We can build more shelves,” he agreed. “There’s always more room for books.”
“What time do we leave?” she asked, changing the subject. “I’ll need to tell Lanky.”
“Not too early, 8 a.m.” It was a two-hour drive, but no point in getting there before he could find the people who he wanted to see. “We can spend the night,” he said. He hesitated. “Dace? Do you want a separate room?”
She patted his hand. “I am happy to share your room and your bed for as long as you want me,” she said simply.
Well now, he thought, as a smile slowly spread across his face. Not a shy young thing after all.
“Good,” he said. “Because I want to share a bed with you for as long as you want to be there.”
And then he picked up his fork and finished the pie.
Chapter 5
Paul spent the afternoon making more calls — which really was what a cop did, he thought amused. It wasn’t like the shows. He liked the television shows too, but really? Dace had been in as many high-speed chases as he had — and she’d done them in a plane. He reconsidered that. That he had been in as the cop in pursuit, at least. But since he added radar detectors aimed both front and back of his Corvette, he wasn’t getting as many tickets. Captain was pleased, at least.
So, he kept fleshing out the list of what he knew and added questions to what he wanted to know. And Joe Bob kept digging for more data.
At 4 p.m. Captain Wyckoff came out of his office and said, “So what do you two know?”
“Sarah Itee is a mature young woman who is focused on her education and her work at the Native Alaskan Health Center,” Paul said. “She hasn’t returned to her village, and there are no bodies that match her at the morgue or the hospital. One roommate reported she had been followed by someone in a car on Friday, and gave me a license plate number. Apparently, Sarah was troubled enough to jot it down, but then was too timid to file a complaint. Access to the license plate number was blocked.”
Wyckoff frowned. “Even to the police?” he said slowly.
Paul nodded.
Wyckoff looked at Joe Bob. “And what about you?”
“There are currently 53 missing women in the Anchorage area,” Joe Bob said, angrily, and he threw a pencil at the wall. “Fuck, Captain, how do we not have a task force set up to find them? To at least be concerned!”
“Are you sure of that number? Mary said 18.”
“In that particular Captain’s file, yes,” he said. “Guess how many other files I found.” He rotated his shoulders to get rid of the stress of being hunched at a computer. And the stress of what he’d found, Paul thought.
“There are actually more listed than that, but I was able to clear a bunch with a few simple calls,” he continued wearily. “A few were dead and should have been open murder cases, in my opinion. A few had indeed gone home. And a few have since been cited for things like prostitution or drug dealing, and should have been removed from the database as missing. But Captain? None of them have been added to the state trooper’s missing person database.”
“Why not?” Captain Wyckoff said, frowning. “That’s supposed to be a complete database and we all contribute names.”
Joe Bob shook his head. “I stuck to data,” he said. “I figured those kinds of questions are more your style than mine.”
“I’m going in to Anchorage tomorrow,” Paul said. “I want to ask more questions. Joe Bob, how many years does this stretch back?”
“Based on my data? Probably started about three, maybe four years ago,” he said.
“Wait,” Captain Wyckoff said. “You’re not talking about just a callousness toward missing Indigenous women here?”
The two partners looked at each other, and then Paul shook his head. “I think we’ve had a predator operating,” he said. “And nobody noticed. He picked the women carefully, vulnerable women, who either weren’t noticed as missing, or if they were reported, nobody cared enough to really follow up. And then he picked the wrong woman. A young woman who calls Mary Ayers grandmother.”
“A sexual predator with 50 kills, and no one notices!” Wyckoff protested. “Even over four years, I find that incredible.”
Paul and Joe Bob looked at each other, and then back at the Captain. “They’re missing, Captain,” Joe Bob said. “And if I can’t find them? They’re truly missing. If they’re not dead? Where are they? And if they are dead, where are their bodies? I’d guess he’s been taking one a month. Maybe more.”
Joe Bob shrugged. “When you talk to Commander Anderson you can tell him I managed to clear a dozen missing persons cases, and attach names to six Jane Does for him. In an afternoon of calls. You can use that when he gets pissy that I hacked his files.”
“I’m not going to be talking to Commander Anderson,” Wyckoff said coldly. “I’m going to be talking to the Chief. And if I have my way, the Chief will be doing some housekeeping among the ranks. Send me a report on what you did and what you found.”
Joe Bob nodded.
Wyckoff looked at Paul. “I know you were planning to go there tomorrow,” he said. “Let me see if I can actually get you some jurisdiction in the morning.”
Paul nodded. “Captain? That number that’s blocked. I’ve not run into that before. But it means a cop or more likely a fed since I can’t get into it.”
Joe Bob grimaced. “More to the point, I couldn’t hack it either,” he said.
“So, if you start making waves, we’re going to alert that guy, and then we’re going to have a dead body.”
“You don’t think she’s dead already?” Wyckoff asked. “It’s been 72 hours?”
Paul shrugged.
“What do you want to do?”
“Take a couple of days of personal leave to do a favor for an old friend?” he suggested. “Dace is going with me.”
“Why?”
Paul laughed. “Did you just ask me why I’m taking Dace along?”
Wyckoff rolled his eyes. He looked at Joe Bob. “You too?”
“Not me,” he said cheerfully. “I can do everything from right here and get paid.”
Wyckoff considered the situation, and nodded. “Leave granted,” he said.
“Captain? Could you call DMV in the morning and see if you can get them to cough up a name for those plates?” Paul asked.
“Yes, I’ll make the call,” he said. “But Paul, stay in touch with Joe Bob and with me. Whoever this is may have tripwires throughout the records, or for inquiries like this one. So, he may know you’re on his trail before you do.”
Paul gave that some thought as he left the building. He thought about leaving Dace at home, but truthfully, she’d already demonstrated she was cooler under pressure than most partners he had over the years. And it lent verisimilitude to the whole ‘doing a favor for an old friend’ thing. As if just thinking the phrase conjured her up, his phone rang.
“Hello, Mary,” he said, switching the phone to Bluetooth.
“I was hoping for a progress report,” she said.
“She’s truly missing,” he said slowly, wondering how much to tell her. “I’m going into Anchorage tomorrow to pursue it. Captain granted me personal time.”
“Will you bring that young woman with you? Dace? I liked her.”
“Yes,” Paul said.
“Good. The two of you can have dinner with me tomorrow night. I’ll make reservations for you to stay at the Sheraton,” she said crisply. “Give me an update then.”
“Mary, that’s not necessary,” Paul protested, but she wasn’t on the line anymore. He sighed. Guess they were staying upscale, he thought amused. He wondered if Dace had a dress? Well if she didn’t, she could go shopping tomorrow. He was sure Mary would be delighted to take her. He rolled his eyes.
Paul stopped at the grocery store at the Talkeetna Spur turnoff. They were past due to stock up on all the basics, he thought, but he just picked up what he needed to make pasta for supper. With salmon. That means a white sauce and white wine. And a fresh salad. Maybe some broccoli in the pasta? And a dessert. They had good desserts at the store, not as good as the bakery in town, but he didn’t have time to stop there, too, not if he wanted to beat Dace home.
Shopping soothed him. Any mundane task really, he thought, as he drove home. Cooking, cleaning, doing laundry. The kinds of things one did to have a life; they grounded him back into a reality where he didn’t have to deal with the horror of his job.
He was unloading groceries, when Dace appeared in the drive. He would have stopped for her, although the groceries might make it a bit crowded, but she preferred to walk if the weather was good. She used it as a transition from her office to home too, although for different reasons. Lanky might be more reasonable with her than with past office managers, but he doubted that he was an easy man to deal with even so. Add in a half-dozen pilots? And then customers, most of whom were tourists and the rest facing some kind of emergency where they needed to get somewhere fast?
He'd take his job, quite frankly.
“Do you like your job?” he asked as she held the door open for him and the armload of groceries.
“Where did that come from?” she asked as she followed him into the kitchen. She perched on a stool at the breakfast counter to watch him cook. She’d help if he asked her to, and sometimes they did cook together, but tonight he wanted the soothing rhythms of cooking — and he wanted to feed her, he admitted. There was something intimate about cooking a meal for a lover. Erotic even. Some of the greatest erotic film scenes combined food and lust.
She pondered the question. “I like it,” she said. “It’s satisfying to keep chaos at a manageable level for everyone. I like the pilots; and Lanky? He’s like an irascible father figure I guess. And I love being around the planes. I’m as hooked on planes as any pilot.”
“But?” he prompted because he heard an unspoken but.
She frowned as she thought about it. “I want to make a difference in the world,” she said slowly. “A mark that says Candace Marshall was here. She passed this way and the world was a better place for it. Maybe because I almost passed this way and disappeared, and no one would have ever noticed my passing.”
Paul felt honored when Dace shared her thoughts or her feelings with him. She was a private person, more because there’d been no one to share things with. Some things he knew because of the investigation a year ago: her mother had died when she was young. Her father had raised her but developed early onset Alzheimer’s when she was in her teens. Slowly the roles had reversed, and she became his caretaker, even as she went to college at the University of Washington. She got a job as a secretary in an office there — and since Paul had grown up in a professor’s home, he suspected that’s where she gained the skills to handle Lanky and his pilots, because oh my God, the tales his mother had told them all about her colleagues at the university!
And then Dace met Steven Whitaker and married him. And those were the years she still didn’t share with him. Maybe someday she would. Paul suspected it was a matter of someday she could.
