from Louisville who liked the company of prostitutes when he was away from home.”
Her voice was even, without any hint of judgment. I wasn’t so sanguine.
“He had sex with three different women who happened to get murdered within a few hours of him sleeping with them? And in addition to that he has a wife at home?”
“Truckers can live very different lives on the road and at home,” Grimaldi said noncommittally. “This is the street. We’re looking for number 739.”
I peered out the window on my side of the car while the conversation continued. “But this guy didn’t kill any of them?”
“He had an alibi for several of the others,” Grimaldi said, peering out the other side. “So if we’re looking for a single perpetrator, it won’t be him.”
She continued, without changing her tone, “The house is going to be on your side. These are all even numbers.”
“I’m looking. What kind of alibi did he have? The guy from Louisville?”
“He was driving south through Alabama at the time when another victim was killed in North Indiana,” Grimaldi said. “He couldn’t have been in two places at once.”
“But if there are more than one of them? Some sort of conspiracy...”
I trailed off, thinking about the ramifications of a band of murderous truckers, raping and killing women all over the country, and communicating on their CB radios, if truckers still used those…
Except these women hadn’t been killed all over the country. They’d been killed in a pretty narrow corridor, especially considering the size of the rest of the country. So if there was a conspiracy of truckers, it only involved interstate 65...
“The FBI isn’t taking that angle seriously,” Grimaldi said. “Their profile indicates someone who likes to work alone.”
So no conspiracy of truckers. I wasn’t sure whether I was happy about that, or the opposite. It was probably a good thing. If there was just one killer, it would be easier to convict him. Probably.
“There’s number 739,” I said, “coming up. The blue mailbox.”
Grimaldi nodded and aimed for the driveway.
“Was there any DNA found on Laura Lee?”
“There was,” Grimaldi said, as she maneuvered the SUV up the curve of the driveway, “but not from that guy. We haven’t identified it yet. So far, it isn’t a match to anything else, in this case or any other.”
I nodded as she pulled the car to a stop on the parking pad outside the double garage, and looked around.
Laura Lee’s parents lived in a low-slung, mid-century cottage, built between the war years and the time when streamlined, atomic ranches became popular. It had the peaked entrance of a cottage, but in every other way it was a ranch: long and low, built of red brick with touches of orchard stone around the door and chimney.
“Decent place,” I told Grimaldi, who nodded. “Who lives here?”
“According to the census, Mr. and Mrs Drimmel and two grandchildren. The elder, a daughter, graduated from high school, so she might be in college.”
And still have her official address here. I nodded. “Do they know we’re coming?”
Grimaldi shook her head. “They’re both retired, though. I’m guessing at least one of them is home. Hear the music?”
I did hear the music. Nineteen-forties Big Band; nothing I could imagine either of the kids listening to. If Laura Lee had been dead for sixteen or seventeen years, her youngest couldn’t be any less than that, and Grimaldi had just said the girl might be in college.
“Let’s go.” She pushed her door open.
“Carrie’s asleep,” I said. “Do you want me to stay in the car?”
She gave me a look. “No. I want you to come with me, in case you notice something I don’t. Besides, it’s rarely a good idea to interview people on your own. Not until you know they aren’t suspects and won’t come at you with a carving knife.”
“These are the first victim’s parents,” I pointed out. “Carving knives aren’t likely to come into play.”
She just shrugged, and I added, “I have to bring Carrie. After last night, I’m not letting her out of my sight.”
Grimaldi nodded. “Your husband told me what happened. Just grab her and let’s go.”
The music turned out to be coming from inside the garage, that was why we could hear it so clearly. As we passed the garage windows—that looked like regular windows from the front—the music became more pronounced, and I realized that what I had taken for some weird percussion beat, was actually the sound of metal on metal. Someone was inside the garage working