by John Lutz
“I mean a handgun.”
“Yeah. In the closet. An old Colt semiautomatic. I know how to use it.”
“Keep it by the bed tonight.”
“I’ll do that. I promise.”
Westerley did drive back to Hogart after breakfast, but not before making sure Beth was safely installed at home.
The first thing Westerley did when he got into town was to call his deputy, Billy Noth, into the office and give him the rest of the day off. Then he told Billy the situation with Beth and instructed him to drive to her place this evening and spend the night keeping an eye on the house without telling her.
“I can hardly recall what Roy Brannigan looks like,” Billy said.
“Let’s hope you aren’t reminded tonight. By the way, Billy, Beth’s got a handgun she keeps by the bed.”
“Great,” Billy said. Then he laughed. “You warning me away, Sheriff?”
“Get out of here, Billy,” Westerley said.
When Billy was gone, Westerley called his contact at the state lab and asked if there was any progress on the DNA samples he’d sent in. There’d been a family killing in St. Louis that was put on top priority, he was told. It might be several days before he heard about his samples.
Westerley’s next phone call was to his part-time clerk and dispatcher Bobi Gregory. He asked her to handle the phone and to call him if anything important came up. He wouldn’t be far away, over in Jefferson City, where the Vincent Salas trial had been held.
Something about the time of the rape, and the Salas trial, was nibbling at the edges of Westerley’s memory, but he couldn’t identify it.
He spent most of the morning in the City Hall records room, reading the trial transcript. Salas seemed guilty again.
Only he wasn’t. Not according to DNA.
Westerley went to another department and gained access to the section where evidence was stored from trials dating back years. He easily found the box containing the Salas trial evidence.
It angered him when he touched Beth’s torn panties, the three empty Wild Colt beer cans. Salas had never reclaimed the contents of his pockets, which were in a separate brown envelope. When he examined the envelope’s contents, Westerley understood why. The envelope contained a pocket comb, a cheap penknife, and sixty-two cents in loose change. A worn leather wallet held two one-dollar bills, a punch card that would earn free coffee at a restaurant in Flagstaff, Arizona, and an expired Missouri driver’s license. One of the loose nickels attracted Westerley’s attention. It was dated 1919, or maybe 1918. It was hard to tell, as worn as the nickel was. Westerley fingered the coin for a while, then dropped it back in the envelope with the rest of the contents, put the envelope back in the evidence box, and returned everything to its dusty space in the rows of metal shelves.
When he left it struck him as always how so much chaos and violence could be reduced to items in neat rows of boxes, and ignored to be rendered harmless by time.
76
When Westerley got back to Hogart and entered his office, Bobi Gregory was seated at the desk by the window. Across from her, Mathew Wellman was sitting in one of the padded black vinyl chairs with wooden arms. Mathew was pretending to read a supermarket tabloid. It featured the President of the United States smiling and waving as he boarded a flying saucer.
“My Aunt Edna sent me,” Mathew said.
Westerley was thrown for a moment. Then he remembered Mathew’s surreptitious viewing of pornography on the computer. He motioned with his head for Mathew to follow him into his office.
After settling in behind his desk, Westerley told Mathew to have a seat in a nearby chair that was exactly like the one he’d been seated in out in the anteroom.
Mathew looked down at the floor. “All I can say is I’m sorry about what happened, sir. I never meant for Aunt Edna to see that stuff.”
“I bet you didn’t,” Westerley said. “Some of those women looked seriously underaged.”
“Aw, they can make them look like that. You probably mean the one with the-”
“The sites are against the law,” Westerley said, but he supposed they’d have to be looked at one by one to really determine that.
“Actually, they’re-”
“I’ll talk to your Aunt Edna and make sure she knows you were just satisfying your curiosity, and you’re not a sex maniac.”
Mathew seemed surprised by this sudden apparent termination of what he’d assumed would be a major and historic ass-chewing from an expert. He wasn’t sure quite how to react. “I know pornography can become an addiction, sir.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Westerley said, noticing that Mathew was regarding him with a new attentiveness.
Mathew said nothing, sensing when to hold his cards close.
“You believe that stuff?” Westerley asked.
“About the addiction?”
“No. About the president and that flying saucer.”
No fool, Mathew, knew that wasn’t really the question. He said, “I don’t dismiss it out of hand.”
“You notice that computer on the table out in the other room?” Westerley asked.
“Sure, I did. Nice setup with plenty of power and storage. It’s got that new chip that makes it unbelievably fast. If you wanted to play games-”
“I do,” Westerley said.
Mathew grinned. “What kind of games?”
“Depends on what you and that computer can do. The state just bought it and I’m still lost on it. Probably always will be, to some extent. It’s a generational thing. Seems that the younger people are, assuming they been weaned, the better they are with all this tech stuff.”
“Weaned?”
“It’s an old expression. Like carbon copy. ”
“You’re funning me,” Mathew said.
“Not really. People over a certain age have a difficult time getting the hang of computers. Bobi, out there, she mostly downloads recipes and sends e-mail and photographs, so she’s not much help so far. Billy Noth might as well be flying the starship Enterprise for the first time. What I want calls for somebody who can make the most use of that expensive advanced technology. Really make it hum.”
“That would be me,” Mathew said.
“I’d find somebody younger if I could,” Westerley said, wondering where the sir went.
“I’m in the right spot at the right time.”
“That you are, Mathew. On the spot, you might say.”
“I want to do something,” Mathew said, “to repay you for keeping me out of trouble with Aunt Edna, and with the law. And for saving me a lot of embarrassment.”
So young to be playing the game, Westerley thought. “I haven’t done anything yet,” he said.
Mathew nodded but said nothing. His bland, reassuring face was unreadable. The lad would go far.
“What’s the expression used when you go where you aren’t supposed to be on the Internet?” Westerley asked. “I mean, other than if you’re looking at porn sites.”
“Hacking,” Mathew said.
“Do you possess that skill, Mathew?”
“It’s more an art than a skill.”
“So are you an artist?”
Mathew smiled. “Think Picasso.”
Westerley stood up and came around from behind his desk. “Come with me to the other room and familiarize yourself with that computer,” he said. “I’ll send Bobi home to make a pie, and then go see your Aunt Edna. When I get back, I’ll tell you what I need.”
Mathew stood up, grinning. “I wonder what Aunt Edna would think if she knew we were partners in crime.”
Westerley didn’t smile. “You’re going to have to learn, Mathew, not to pull my chain.”
But Westerley knew Mathew wasn’t exactly joking. He recognized the expression in the young nerd’s face, the ironically dumb staring look in his eyes. Hero worship. Maybe it was the way the porno thing was handled. Maybe the uniform. Maybe the gun.
Westerley shook his head. Terrific. I’m the idol of a kid s
marter than I am.
Link kissed Beth on the cheek when he came home. She tried not to react too obviously, but she wondered if he’d noticed her resistance, the slight drawing away and stiffening of her body.
If he did, he gave no indication. He sighed contentedly, like a man glad to be home, and carried his blue nylon suitcase into the bedroom. It was a roomy piece of luggage, a suit carrier that had lots of zippered pockets. It could be folded twice, and somehow managed to qualify as a carry-on and fit in an overhead compartment.
Beth followed him into the bedroom and watched him unpack.
“Add to your collection?” she asked.
He smiled as he tossed a pair of socks onto the laundry pile. “Not my personal one, no. But I picked up some valuable antebellum coins for the company.” She noticed, not for the first time in the past few years, that Link had even begun to talk in a slightly different way, as if he were more educated. Not so much like the uncomplicated country guy she’d met years ago in a roadhouse with a parking lot full of pickup trucks.
Of course, he might simply have cleaned up his English to go with his suit-and-tie job.
“They should be pleased.”
“They usually are, Beth. That’s why they keep me busy traveling. It looks like I’ll have to be gone next weekend, too. Big numismatic convention in Denver.”
“Nowhere near New York,” Beth said.
Link stopped what he was doing and stared at her. “Why would you say that?”
“I don’t know. You go to New York a lot, don’t you?”
“Hardly ever. That place is too hectic, far as I’m concerned.”
She shrugged. “Well, Denver next time.”
He stopped unpacking and walked over to her. She stood very still as he gave her a hug.
“You don’t think I like being away so often, do you?” he asked.
“I know you like to travel.”
“Sure, I do. It’s the being-away part I don’t like. We’re doing okay with me in this job, and later on I can transfer to something that doesn’t involve so much travel. Or maybe even get another job altogether.”
Beth made herself rest her head against his shoulder. “You’re right, of course.”
He kissed her forehead, as if that would make everything better, then went back to continue unpacking. “Heard anything from Eddie?”
“He sent an e-mail. I saved it for you. He needs money.”
Link grinned. “Don’t we all?”
He’d finished placing his blue oxford shirt, and most of the other clothes he’d worn during his trip, on a pile on the floor. Beth moved around the bed and scooped up the wadded clothes, using the shirt as a makeshift sack. “I’ll put these in the washer.”
“Thanks, hon.”
“You might want to wear some of them on your Denver trip.”
“Might,” he agreed, grinning at her. “I’ll check the e-mail, then grab a beer and sit out on the porch while the washer runs. Let me know when there’s enough water pressure for me to take a shower.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Beth said.
These days, everything sounded like a plan.
77
New York, the present
The blue-eyed guy could mambo. Jane Nixon had to give him that.
He never seemed to get tired. They’d been out on the dance floor at Salsa Caliente for almost half an hour. She got to rest a bit during a merengue, but not much.
He was wearing her out, and nobody would say Jane wasn’t in shape.
She spent most of her time at Davida’s restaurant down in the Village, on her feet and moving as she waited tables. Most of her money she spent on dance lessons, and dancing here at Salsa Caliente or at Move On. Both clubs were only blocks from her apartment, easy walks. Since she’d taken up dancing six months ago, she’d lost ten pounds, and her slender body had acquired muscular definition.
But the blue-eyed guy was too much.
She stopped dancing and stepped back, breathing hard. The backs of her legs ached. She actually said, “Whew!”
“You okay?” he asked, looking her in the eye. He was on the tall side and built like a museum statue, if you could imagine a statue dressed in pleated black slacks and a bright red tight T-shirt with Salsa spelled out in sequins across the chest.
“Tired, is all,” Jane said, smiling.
He walked with her back to a table where he’d been sitting with half a dozen of his friends. They were all up dancing now. The blue-eyed guy raised a hand to get the attention of a waiter and ordered them both Jack Daniel’s and water. Each knew what the other drank, yet they’d never asked each other their names. They were here to dance, that was all.
“I’m all in,” Jane said, after downing half her drink. “Time to go home and collapse.”
He smiled at her. “We could collapse together.”
“All I know about you,” Jane said, “is you’re a terrific dancer.”
“That isn’t enough?”
She laughed. “Maybe someday.” She glanced at her watch.
“I’m Martin,” he said, pronouncing it Mar teen. He raked his fingers through his sweat-damp blond hair.
Jane laughed harder. “You sure look Latin.”
“Gerhardt Martin,” he said.
“Yeah, so am I.”
She patted the back of his sweaty hand and stood up to leave.
“Gonna be dancing tomorrow night?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Maybe that’ll be the someday. You know?”
She grinned. “See you, Gerhardt.”
“See you right back, Gerhardt.” He raised his glass to her as she walked away along the edge of the dance floor.
She’d checked her purse when she’d come in. After claiming it and glancing through it pretending to look for a tissue, but actually making sure nothing was missing, she went out into the lingering heat.
The streets were almost deserted, but she didn’t have far to go. There was just about enough strength left in her legs to make it up the steps to her third-floor walk-up apartment.
She’d keyed the dead bolt and opened the door when she sensed movement behind her. There was no time to react. A hand shoved her between her shoulder blades and she went stumbling into the dimly lit apartment.
Jane had been raised in a tough area of Detroit and was no pushover. She didn’t lose her head, and in an instant she was adrenaline fueled. Jane the dancer became Jane the fighter.
She heard the snick of the dead bolt. He was locking them in, not rushing, assuming she’d be disoriented and paralyzed with terror. Jane had been replacing her key in her purse when she was shoved. Her hand stayed in her purse as she stumbled across the room and fell.
She turned and he was coming for her, as she knew he would. A dark silhouette in the shadowy living room. There was something in his hand, a short, curved, and sharply pointed knife.
Christ!
She’d read the papers, watched the news, and she knew who this must be.
And for a split second she was paralyzed with terror.
The blue-eyed guy? Gerhardt?
No. Too small. And he didn’t move like Mr. Blue Eyes.
She wished now she’d accepted the blue-eyed guy’s suggestion that he come home with her.
As the dark form with the knife advanced on her, Jane made herself wait, made herself be still. Her hand that held the small aerosol canister of mace in her purse was perspiring. She slid the button forward to take the device off safety, and waited, waited… The training she’d taken had made it clear that for this to work, her attacker had to be close. She hunched her shoulders, turned half away from him, as if cowering and helpless.
When he was almost close enough to slash with the knife, she whirled and rose with a strength that surprised even her and extended her right hand that was gripping the mace canister.
Work! Please work!
The canister was only about a foot away from his face when she depressed the top button and a stro
ng spray of pungent liquid struck him square in the eyes.
Surprise! You sick bastard!
He gave a strangled growl and flailed with his arm, striking her hard in the wrist and causing the hissing mace canister to go flying. She felt an immediate burning sensation in her eyes and when she tried to breathe, her nose and throat contracted and tears came. She knew she’d inhaled some of the mace when he knocked the canister away.
She could still see enough to find the bedroom door. She ran for it, got inside the bedroom, and slammed and locked the door with the knob latch. That should keep him away for about five seconds.
There was a lot of noise from the living room, and something-sounded like a lamp-fell to the floor.
The door to the hall opened and slammed. Footsteps like crazy descended the wooden stairs. Not rhythmically, but as if he was bouncing off the walls and banister.
He’s not coming after me! Thank God!
Coughing and gagging, Jane crawled to the phone by the bed and yanked it by the cord down to the floor where she could reach it. That was when she noticed blood on her skirt. Her left forearm, which she must have unconsciously used to block the knife, was bleeding.
She saw immediately that the blood was coming from a small nick, a minor injury that probably wouldn’t even require stitches. Looking at it, imagining what might have happened, sickened her. She sat leaning with her back against the wall, gasping for oxygen, and placed the phone in her lap.
Squinting to focus tear-blurred eyes, she tried to punch out 911 but kept getting it wrong.
78
The Skinner’s eyes were still watering. He remained seated on a park bench, where he’d been for almost two hours.
Fortunately he had his sunglasses with him. Unless someone noticed the tear tracks on his cheeks, he wouldn’t draw much attention. He was simply another New Yorker basking in a beautiful morning.
Last night had become a horror. How he’d even gotten to the park was a marvel of luck and ingenuity. Since the pepper spray or mace, or whatever it was, had struck him squarely in the eyes, he could barely see, and there was no way he could stop his eyes from watering.