The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [61]
McClary put down the phone and started to weep. The sound tore at my heart. After a few moments, he came back on the line.
“My daughter is with the Lord,” he said.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said.
“May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Do the police have any idea who did this?”
I hesitated. The police did have a suspect, only I knew it wasn’t the right one. I didn’t want to give Frank McClary any conflicting information, so I said, “The case is wide open, Mr. McClary. That’s all I can tell you right now.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Pray that they catch him,” I said.
McClary fell silent, and I heard him blow his nose. Then he said, “I got a call from one of Mary’s friends about a year ago. Mary had contacted her, and said that she was trying to get off the streets and find work. I took that as a positive sign, and told myself that one day Mary would call, and that she’d tell me she’d gotten her life straightened out.”
Mary McClary had been looking for a job. It made me wonder if that was how she’d met her killer. “Did your daughter’s friend say what kind of work?” I asked.
“Not that I remember.”
“Did your daughter have any training?”
“No, she dropped out of high school.”
“Did she work during the summer or on weekends?”
“She did some babysitting in the neighborhood, but that was about it. No, wait. Mary worked as a waitress and part-time cashier one summer at a hotel on the beach. She made a lot in tips, so I guess she was good at it.”
McClary’s voice cracked, and he again started to weep. I didn’t like putting him through this, but I’d learned something important. His daughter might have tried to get a job at a restaurant before she died. I again told him I was sorry, and got off the line.
I left the McDonald’s and drove back to the beach. I sat with my car facing the ocean and my windows down. I did not know what was worse, finding Mary McClary’s body, or telling her father. They both ripped at my soul.
My wife believed that for every good deed there is a reward. Mine came a few minutes later when Sally Haskell called me back.
“Tim Small said he’ll help you,” she said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tim Small lived outside of Melbourne, a seaside town an hour east of Orlando and two and a half hours north of Fort Lauderdale. Driving north on the Florida Turnpike, I pulled off at the first town I came to, went into an outlet store, and purchased a pair of khaki cargo pants and a lime-green Tommy Bahama shirt that was on sale for half-price. My old clothes smelled like death, and I did not regret parting with them.
Small lived on a street lined with ranch homes painted in vibrant Sun Belt hues. As I pulled down the driveway, I saw Sally Haskell leaning against her car. Sally was a honey-blond, blue-eyed Florida native who spent her free time running marathons. She was dressed in chinos and a pale blue sports shirt with the Disney logo embroidered on the pocket. We hugged as I got out of my car.
“You look like hell,” she said.
“It’s nice to see you, too,” I said.
She gently pushed me back and put on her serious face. “I want you to know something before we go inside. Tim Small is a very dear person to me. I’m very protective of him.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I said.
“I know you will,” she said. “But you’re also going to push him. It’s your nature. And if you push too hard, I’m going to put my foot down. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Do you think he’d mind if I let Buster run in his backyard? He’s been cooped up in the car for a few hours.”
“I don’t see why not. Tim adores animals.”
I got a plastic dog bowl out of the trunk and filled it with water, then put Buster and the water in the backyard. My dog seemed happy with the situation, and began chasing a squirrel in a tree. I found Sally standing by the front door.
“You still haven’t gotten back together with your wife, have you?