That’s our version of a warm hug.
I turn back when I hear him make a sound. It’s an odd one, a groan, and when I walk back, I see that he’s sitting hunched over. His face looks ashy, and he’s pressing a hand to his stomach. He grimaces when he sees me back. “I’m all right,” he says. “Ulcer’s acting up, that’s all. I’ll be fine. I made an appointment with the damn doctor, I see him next Monday. Stop hovering.”
He means it. I don’t like it, but at least he’s actually sensible enough to seek some medical care, thank God.
I look around, and see Sergeant Porter watching us both. I point to Prester, then to my eyes, and he nods.
Porter will watch over him while I’m gone.
I head for the landfill, which is situated far enough out of town that the smell hardly ever drifts to downtown. But it’s easy to know you’re getting there. Between that and the sewage plant situated close by, it’s a full, stinky experience.
Seagulls circle the dump like vultures, swept-back wings riding the currents. I don’t like the damn things, and I just know I’m going to get crapped on out there by one of them. But as Prester said: you got to put in your garbage time, and this is part of mine.
The stench is like to knock me over when I get out of the car, but I power through the invisible fog over to the small, yellow-painted office. Incredibly, they keep the windows open. Maybe it’s to keep their tolerance level up.
I lean in the window to the big man crowded at the desk and show my badge. “Hey,” I say. “Afternoon. Kezia Claremont, NPD. Here to talk to Douglas Prinker.”
“You mean Junior? He’s up on the ridge driving the compactor. Big thing with the roller. Can’t miss it. Just finished lunch, so he should be back up there by now.”
“Can I drive up there?”
“Only if you got a tractor. No cars allowed.”
He points out on the map where I’ll find Junior, and I go outside. There’s a wide path winding up the hill, pale dirt that’s kept hard-packed by tractors running daily. Not a hard climb, except for the stench. Seagulls shriek and dive into the jumble of white, blue, green, and red bags that litter the slope, ready to be pushed down flat. One man’s trash is a flying rat’s treasure.
Douglas Prinker is dwarfed by the giant machine he’s driving. I watch him a minute, then get close enough that he can hear my shouts. The roaring engine dies with a rattle, and the cries of birds take over the empty space. He climbs down onto the step of the compactor . . . but not all the way down. I hold out my badge and point at the ground. He jumps and lands two feet away from me.
He’s bigger than he looked up on that machine. Broader. Wiry strong. He’s sweating, and he takes off his battered, dirty helmet and tucks it under his arm. Beneath it, his blond hair is dark and matted. “What you want?” he asks. “Ma’am.”
“Detective Claremont,” I say. “Y’all know me, Douglas. Don’t you?” Most folks who live and work around Norton do. And he nods. From the wary look in his eyes, he thinks he’s about to be collared. “I need to ask you some questions. You want to do it here, or come down to the station with me? Either is fine with me.”
Nobody chooses the station.
He says, “Go on then. I’m on the clock. They’re gonna dock my time.”
I think about clever approaches, but doesn’t seem like it’d be worth it. “You acquainted with Sheryl Lansdowne at all?”
“Sheryl who?” I see a vein start to throb in his temple. I wish there were about two more feet between us, but I’m not about to step back either.
“Lansdowne. Married Tommy Jarrett a while back?”
“Don’t know her.”
“Then why do we have video of your van cruising by her house on several occasions at night, Douglas?” We don’t, of course. But he doesn’t know that. I see him shift uncomfortably. “You sweet on her, maybe?”
“She was pretty, that’s all,” he says. “I didn’t do nothin’ to her. You can look at that video. I never even stopped at her house for long. And I damn sure never went inside.”
Just sat outside in his van long enough to get off, I suspect. That doesn’t surprise me. It does disgust me a little. “You happen to be there on Sunday night, early Monday morning?”
He puts some thought into it, then shakes his head. “I was at the Low Dog until about closin’ time. Then I got myself pulled over on the way home and was in the Valerie jail until mornin’. You can check that.”
“I will,” I say. It sounds depressingly likely and true. And he wouldn’t give an arrest as an alibi unless he was confident it would hold up.
“I heard what happened to her girls . . . ,” Prinker says. I look up. “I got a little girl. That’s just plain evil. I’d never do a thing like that. Never.”
He’s got a record of battering one ex-wife and one ex-girlfriend, but somehow, I believe him on that one. Even bad men have limits, and that’s his.
He puts his hat on. “Hope you find Sheryl,” he says. “And I sure hope you catch that asshole what did this.”
I nod and thank him, and he climbs back up in his machine and fires it up. The rumble shakes the ground I’m standing on, and I back away and head down the hill.
I’m convinced already that Douglas Adam Prinker is a waste of time, but I’ll close the loop and check the box. And that doesn’t leave a whole lot of room to keep moving forward. Maybe Prester’s right. Maybe I should let the TBI take this one.
But maybe there’s one more distant possibility to run down.
Instead of heading back to the office, I stop off at home and shower to get the reek of the dump off me; I can’t stand it, and can’t imagine anyone else could either. I find there’s a big fat seagull dropping on my jacket, and scrub it off and curse the damn sky rats. Fresh jeans, shirt, suit coat, shoes. I feel much, much better.
I turn to Boot, who’s been watching me run around with great interest and a good deal of satisfaction at having me home. I rub his head, and he looks up at me with big, brown eyes and pants softly. He can smell something coming. He gets to his feet and trots to the door, looking at me expectantly.
“Absolutely right. Road trip, boy,” I tell him. I get the leash but don’t put it on him; he doesn’t need it on the property. I open the door and say, “Car.”
He bounds out and straight for it, and pauses by the back door of my plain black sedan like the good boy he is. One foot in the air, polite as you please. “Go pee,” I tell him, and point at his favorite tree. He looks at me, then the tree, and then his ears go down and he snuffles his way there, circles it three times, and does his business. By that time I’ve got the back door open, and he launches himself into the car at a dead run. The car bounces on its springs as he lands.
Boot is about seventy pounds of solid muscle, and as far as backup goes, he’s better than most of the local officers I know around here. Listens better too. I have a twinge of worry as I start up the car, and I pay attention to that. I call my pop. He’s gruff and fine. Talking to him, even in a mood, makes me feel better.
Boot puts his head through the gap between the headrests and rests his chin there.