Angel Fire - Lisa Unger [56]
“The good news is there’s a log, the bad news is that security guards seem to have really bad handwriting, and that a hundred and twenty-three vehicles have entered that park in the last twenty-four hours. We sent detectives over to the airport rental car offices to get a list of their customers since the afternoon before Lopez was murdered, just to cover all our bases. We also got the airport to release their security tapes.”
“You don’t think it’s someone local?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, just covering the bases. Tomorrow we’ll have someone start punching license plate numbers into the DMV database, do some cross referencing with VICAP. If a green minivan pops up, we might get lucky.”
“We should get a list of parishioners and volunteers at the church, too.”
“Good idea. You almost done out there?”
“I’m just about to go into this bar and talk to Mike Urquia.”
“They talked to him for over four hours today.”
“Well, they talked to Greg, too, and they didn’t get the information I got. Is the autopsy done?”
“Almost done. Morrow and I are waiting to meet with the ME. He told us already that he thinks she’s been dead for more than fifteen hours, out there for ten.”
“The killer didn’t do a very good job of hiding her. Do you think he wanted us to find her?”
“He didn’t stage the scene, there were no anonymous tips to lead police to the body. He didn’t leave any messages or clues. He just dumped her. Maybe he just didn’t care. Maybe he’s that sure of himself.”
“Did anything else turn up at the scene?”
“Well, the body bag, which was the best hope for prints, was totally clean. We are working to match the semen and pubic hair to Mike Urquia. All physical evidence indicates that the intercourse was consensual, and Urquia admitted to sleeping with her. We also scraped under her nails and hope there’s DNA evidence, but that will only help to eliminate or confirm a suspect. And obviously results will take a while to come back.”
“So, nothing?”
“We’re waiting for toxicology to come back—things are slow as shit in these backwater jurisdictions,” he said.
“All right, well, I’ll meet you back at the house.”
“I have an ugly feeling about this, Lydia. Watch yourself.”
She laughed at his paternal concern. “I thought you didn’t believe in feelings.”
He didn’t answer her.
“If you don’t think I can handle a few rednecks then you don’t know me very well,” she said, trying and failing to lighten the mood.
“That’s not what I mean,” he answered quietly.
“No. I know. Don’t worry. I’ll see you later.”
The bar was dark and Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” blared from the jukebox in the corner behind the pool table. A few warped cues hung on the paneled wall next to a plastic Marlboro clock. It was like a million other dives in small towns across the country. Dirty and full of smoke, inhabited by overweight, flannel- and denim-clad men who looked like they knew no more familiar sight than their own reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
She perched herself on a stool near the window and waited for the bartender to notice her, which she thought wouldn’t be long since all eyes had been on her from the moment she walked through the door. The bartender, a small woman with teased blond hair and an excess of blue eyeshadow, walked toward Lydia, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She wore tight, tapered acid-wash jeans, and a cut-up white sweatshirt over a black tank top, Flashdance-style. The eighties had been an ugly decade.
“What can I get for you, honey?”
“Guinness on tap?” Lydia asked hopefully.
“ ’Fraid not. Coors or Bud on tap. Or Pabst in a can.”
Of course. “Coors, then. Thanks.”
When the bartender returned with her beer, Lydia asked, “Do you know where I can find Mike Urquia?”
“I haven’t seen him tonight.” She glanced at the clock behind her. “He’s usually here by now.”
“Do you know where he works or where I can find him?”
“Are you with the police or something?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what do you want with him?”
Lydia worked