Der Schädelring: Thriller (German Edition)

hear bad stuff about people they thought they knew. What about you?"
    "Try me," she said. "I've probably imagined worse things than you can come up with."
    He smiled, eliminating the fierceness that would otherwise show in his bold features. "I suppose you have. Well, he could have been into drugs, maybe he was dealing. Couldn't find anybody who dealt with him, but it's not exactly the kind of information you volunteer to the police just to be a good citizen."
    The night's band was setting up on the stage at one end of the room. A stringy-haired teenager plugged in a guitar, one of the legion of fast-fingered guitarists that wandered through Memphis on their way to nowhere. Julia had watched them all her life, marveled at the endless power that dreams held on people, dreams that let them lie to themselves about the odds of making it. Or of being happy.
    Whitmore's bulbous eyes took in the scene. "Your father was pretty white-bread plain, as far as we could tell. Could be that he tried real hard to make it look that way. Wouldn't be the first."
    "No plane tickets, no cab calls, car sitting in the driveway. Anything turn up on his driver's license or credit cards?"
    "Nothing. In a missing person case, you retrace the victim's steps over and over, trying to find the point where the trail veers off. The day he disappeared, Douglas Stone taught class, dropped you off and picked you up at daycare, took you to the library and the park, fed you at McDonald's. Apparently tucked you in that night. Then just up and walked off the face of the earth."
    The teen played a blues lick, not bad but nothing special, and began helping the drummer put her kit together. A tall man with a bass guitar strapped across his shoulder began running cables. It would probably take another half-hour before sound check, and Julia wanted to be far away before the first out-of-tune chord screamed.
    Julia finished her drink, closed her eyes, and tried to summon details from her dreams and hypnotism sessions. What would Dr. Forrest ask her to look for? "What happened to his personal effects?"
    "They were held in the evidence locker for two years then sold at public auction. The money went to the foster home where you were staying."
    "Any valuables or personal effects?"
    "Men didn't wear much jewelry back then, not like they do now. But I remember something that I thought was strange. Didn't Mitchell tell you about the ring?"
    "The ring?"
    "Yeah. Big silver thing, shaped like a skull. Had two tiny rubies set in the eye sockets."
    The ring. The one on the hand that held the knife. Julia's stomach tensed, and a shiver of remembered pain ran up the twin scars on her abdomen.
    "That's kind of how we figured the disappearance wasn't in connection with a larceny," Whitmore continued, studying her face. "That ring was probably worth a few grand."
    "Did that get auctioned off, too?"
    "Yeah, as far as I know."
    "Any records of sale from the auction?"
    "Probably someplace, yeah. That was more than twenty years ago, before computer databases, and paper records have a way of falling through the cracks sometimes. But you might go down to the Records Division and take a look. They'll probably put up with you for fifteen minutes before they run you off."
    He finished his milk. A man at the end of the bar lit a cigarette. Whitmore glared at the smoker, who promptly picked up his drink and ashtray and went to find a booth.
    The bartender came by, Julia ordered a second gimlet, Whitmore passed on more milk. "Can I ask you something, Mr. Whitmore? And you don't have to answer, because you don't owe me anything and, as you said, some people don't want to hear bad stuff about people they thought they knew."
    "Ask away," he said, glancing at his watch, and then at the band in the corner.
    "Were there any reports of Satanic activity in Memphis around that time?"
    The corners of Whitmore's lips lifted a little as if he were about to laugh, but realized she was serious. He must have seen his reflection in the bar mirror. He covered his mouth, wiping away the milk mustache. "There's always talk of that kind of thing," he said. "And, no, I don't believe the devil popped up and dragged your daddy down to hell through the bathtub drain."
    "I don't, either. But some people apparently take it deadly seriously."
    "We've had our share of mutilated animals," he said. "Most of it was just high school kids with too much time on their hands and too many people to impress. As for an