by John Lutz
“Detective Quinn,” Ida said. “I do hate to cut this conversation short, but there are preparations still to be made for a double funeral.” Serious now. This woman could playact.
“Of course,” Quinn said. “I shouldn’t have called so soon.” He added, “Where might we send flowers?”
“Oh, that really isn’t necessary. The girls will be buried in the cemetery behind a church they attended. It will be brief. A simple family ceremony.”
“Of course. Family.”
“So if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“Of course. I’m sorry for your loss, dear.”
Ida Tucker thanked him and hung up.
Quinn sat thinking about a cemetery behind a small church, a family standing before two open graves and mourning its loss. There would be sobs and quiet tears and bowed heads. A somber minister clad in black, like the mourners. Rows of aged and crooked tombstones. Like a somber but picturesque Norman Rockwell painting.
But Quinn knew this was all his imagination. It might not look like a Norman Rockwell painting at all. Things were seldom as they seemed, or as we wanted to see them.
He reminded himself never to forget that.
Still, the rows of crooked tombstones, the trembling lips and reddened eyes, the lugubrious minister gripping his Bible tight to his breast.
The two open graves.
It was a scene firmly lodged in Quinn’s memory, though he had never seen it and never would.
Life is just a dream . . .
42
Sarasota, 1993
Snowbirds. That’s what native Floridians called the swarms of people who headed to Florida to escape winter up north. They were from everywhere. New York, Minnesota, Canada . . . all frigid places on the continent. And more than a few snowbirds were European.
Sarasota, because of its charms and beautiful white beach, became more crowded every year. Dwayne Aikin didn’t hate the snowbirds, like some Floridians. On the other hand, he didn’t like them.
Except for the women. So many women. Lounging on the beach, picking at salads in restaurants, laughing in bars and other night spots. The women, talking, shopping. Tempting, many of them.
There was a higher class of woman at Pike’s, on the beach, just off Highway 41, the Tamiami Trail. Pike’s had a driftwood look about it, as if it had weathered the worst of the hurricanes. It was also an art gallery, sometimes showing work by some of Sarasota’s more well known artists, who regarded Sarasota as an art mecca. The paintings here weren’t priced, but deals were made, and for considerable amounts of money.
Canapés and wine were served inside. A smaller version of the inside bar, and several tables, were outside, beneath a roof fashioned to look as if it was thatched with palm fronds. When the weather was good, which was almost always, there were more people outside than inside at Pike’s. Wine and mixed dinks were served there, and art was discussed.
And Dwayne listened. He was fascinated by art and the art world. And he’d learned enough about art to recognize that he had little talent, but a powerful yearning to possess.
Dwayne was still too young to drink there legally, but Peter Pike, the owner and curator of Pike’s, would secretly serve him wine inside, and limited amounts of alcohol outside. And why shouldn’t he? Dwayne’s father had helped to make Pike rich. Now Pike was aware that when Dwayne turned twenty-five, Dwayne would be wealthy. It might be said that Pike was nurturing a future wealthy patron of the arts. Whispered, anyway.
Dwayne wasn’t hurting financially now. That was thanks to his father, not his slut of a mother.
Dwayne liked to sit at one of the small tables near the end of the outside bar, which was very near to where the beach began. Close enough, anyway, to get sand between your bare toes. At night soft breezes wafted in off the Gulf. If the breeze turned cool, large kerosene heaters would provide warmth, and transparent plastic and mesh curtains would be lowered to contain it. The heaters and curtains were seldom needed. Women would come to Pike’s to watch the colorful sunsets, and Dwayne would observe them while he sipped his Coca-Cola spiked with Maker’s Mark bourbon.
The women were considerably older than Dwayne, and many of them knew about art. Not the spring breakers. They not only tended to be college age, but also were gibbering fools. That was how Dwayne saw them, anyway. The older women, some of them widows on the hunt, were not only smarter and more discerning, but seemed quieter. Their conversations had a softer, more confiding tone. Sometimes urgent. All women, it seemed to Dwayne, talked too much about too little. Though there were notable exceptions.
Like the quiet blond woman with a model’s cheekbones who drank alone, and sat on the peripheries like Dwayne and observed. She was probably into her twenties, and had a lean, taut body that was tan from the sun so that when she wore a skimpy blouse the lighter marks from the straps of her swimming suit were visible. Maude used to have vertical strap lines like that on her back and above her breasts.
Occasionally men would approach the blond woman, but she seemed to have a way of rebuffing them without making them angry or embarrassing them. Wayne liked that about her. It was what some people called class.
Sometimes, when she was sending away a sad suitor, she’d glance over at Dwayne. Was she wondering why he hadn’t approached her? Did she think, as he did, that they might be kindred spirits?
Dwayne wasn’t long on friends, especially since the trial. At first he’d been something of a celebrity, but that had worn away fast. Then he realized some of the friends he had left were in his orbit simply because he was a rich kid—or was soon to be rich. He didn’t tell them he was living on a stipend until he came of age. At least it was a stipend compared to what he was worth. He made sure that they knew he wasn’t going to throw money around, and they, too, fell away as friends. That was okay. In fact, Dwayne used his temporary not-yet-rich status to drive away his most annoying hangers-on. Especially the girls.
He would obtain what he wanted from them, and then he was finished with them and would let them know it. They were used goods. He always made sure that they understood that. That they felt it. They were like his mother. Only she’d been smart. And evil. Using her wiles to be a user of others.
Maybe that was in the genes, being a user of people. Or maybe she’d learned it from those who’d used her. We embrace what we can’t escape. What was the alternative, but winding up on the scrap heap with ninety-nine percent of the rest of humanity? Most people didn’t have what it took to be users. Dwayne knew he did. Ask Bill Phoenix. Ask Maude. He smiled. No, it was no good asking Maude.
Or his mother.
As he sat at his outside table at Pike’s, listening to the rush of the surf and watching the blond woman, he admired the way she lifted and lowered her glass. There was a special grace to it, little finger extended, her movements measured. It was the grace of tigers.
Sometimes she would go into the gallery alone and move slowly from painting to painting, as if she were judging them in a contest.
More and more Dwayne saw in her something he’d observed in Maude, and in his mother. A worldly, dangerous exterior that was no act, yet still didn’t quite conceal a vulnerability. They were both users, like most women, but they understood their power and knew its limits. They could also be used.
And they deserved to be used.
The night air was warm. The moon was almost full. You could stare at its pocked surface and make of it what you would. A cloudless sky glowed sequined with stars, and Dwayne had gone heavy on the illegal booze component of his drink that Pike allowed.
Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the moon. Something caused him to decide that this was the night he should approach the blond woman. She hadn’t changed her attitude. Dwayne knew that. He was the one who had become more entranced, the one who needed to know the other’s soul.
Drink in hand, he stood up unsteadily and walked the fifty feet or so to where she sat alone at her outside table. She was gazing out to sea, and seemed not to no
tice him.
After standing for a few seconds at her table, he said, “I’ve been watching you.”
She didn’t bother turning her head to look at him. “And I’ve been watching you.”
He could see by the curve of her cheek that she was smiling slightly. He amused her. Her thinking he was funny—that would change.
“Want to talk?” he asked, thinking immediately that he sounded like what he was, an inexperienced kid struck almost dumb by graceful shoulders, generous tanned breasts, upswept blond hair only slightly ruffled by the breeze. That same breeze brought to him the faint scent of her lotion, and of the ocean.
“That’s what we’re doing,” she said. “They call it talking.”
He wasn’t sure what to say.
She turned around in her chair and looked straight at him with those blue-green eyes. A lump formed in his throat.
“Sit down,” she said. Her voice was soft but there was command in it as well as invitation. She wasn’t someone to be disobeyed, even slightly.
He thought about his mother as he sat down. He wondered if the blond woman somehow knew that. And for the first time, he wondered if they had met before. Had she been a friend of his mother or father? Or of Maude?
No. Not possible. I’d remember this one.
“You’re here . . . often,” he said, simply for words to speak.
“So are you.”
“I’m Dwayne.” He offered his hand to shake.
She ignored it and said. “Linda.” She lifted her glass in a brief toast to him, or to both of them. “Why have you been watching me, Dwayne?”
He was gaining his equilibrium now. “For the same reason other men watch you.”
“Which men are those?”
“The ones who come to your table and get sent away.”
“I didn’t send you away.”
He felt himself blush. “I didn’t think you would.”
“And why not?”
“You’ll laugh.”
She simply stared at him, unblinking.
“I think we’re kindred spirits,” he said.
She smiled with just her lips, then opened her mouth wide and laughed.
“Gee,” she said, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one.”
Dwayne felt small enough to climb down out of his sandals.
Linda quit laughing and gazed at him with something like contempt. He couldn’t help it; he began to squirm.
Linda said, “Let’s walk.” She stood up, but not before leaning over and giving him a good look at her cleavage. He glimpsed where tan flesh turned pink in a place mysterious. He was surprised by how tall she was. As he stood up from his chair, he glimpsed down to see if she was wearing heels. She wasn’t, but the rubber soles of her sandals were thick. He thought that if they were both barefoot she and he would be almost the same height, which made her tall for a woman.
They left the island of light that was Pike’s and walked side by side south along the shore. Neither spoke, but the waves applauded again and again. When the beach narrowed, Dwayne leaned down and rolled up the cuffs of his pants. Linda removed her sandals so that her legs were bare below her shorts. They walked in the packed wet sand, among tiny broken shells, where every once in a while the surf would reach them and swirl about their feet.
“Tell me you’re not an artist,” she said.
“I can honestly say that. What about you?”
“I dabble.”
“I bet you dabble great.”
“I’ve seen enough paintings of sunsets, leaping marlins, and squinting old men with faces marked by the sea.”
“Me too,” he lied.
“There,” she said suddenly, and pointed.
To their right, beyond the curved beach and a stretch of sandy soil, were the lights from a string of condos and rented beach cottages. Linda was pointing at a rectangle of yellow light that was a large window or sliding-glass door in a two-story hotel, kept low by building ordinance and the slightly taller hotel across the street from it.
“That’s the Tipton Hotel,” he said.
They’d stopped walking. His back was to the ocean. Because of the moon he could see her glowing face as she smiled. “How do you know that?” she asked.
“I’m from around here. I’ve driven back and forth on the beach road.”
She widened her eyes in a way he knew was an act. “You’re old enough to have a driver’s license?”
“You know I am,” he lied. She was making fun of him and he couldn’t keep the anger from his voice. A rage she didn’t yet know.
Or knew all too well.
She surprised him by taking his hand. Her own hand was dry and surprisingly strong. She took a few steps, pulling him along until he began to walk.
“I’ll show you,” she said.
“Show me what?” His heart was banging away.
“Where I’m staying,” she said. “Ever been inside the Tipton?”
“Couple of times,” he said. Once. In the lobby.
She was smiling again, amused by him again.
He realized he was smiling on the inside.
She didn’t know that.
43
There was a wooden deck outside the back of the Tipton Hotel, with a scattering of empty lounge chairs several rooms down. Also farther down were the lights of the hotel swimming pool. A few shrill children’s voices reached Linda and Dwayne. No one seemed to be seated outside in the warm Gulf breeze, watching the kids. Or maybe everyone, including the parents, was in the pool.
Smiles and splashes. Family life. Dwayne didn’t think a lot about it.
Still holding his hand, Linda guided him up the wooden steps and across the narrow deck to the rectangle of light she’d pointed out when they were down on the beach. He saw that it was much larger than a window. Two floor-to-ceiling sliding-glass panels.
Linda reached out with her free hand and slid one of the panels aside. It moved smoothly in its track, making barely a whisper.
“Don’t you lock your room when you leave?” Dwayne heard himself ask.
“Nobody would dare steal from me,” she said. Kidding him again. Making fun. Lies large and small would flow from her, and then, finally, the truth would be revealed.
The room was small and neat, with furniture that was sparse and obviously expensive. The Tipton was definitely one of the better hotels in a string of hotels and condos along the beach road.
The bed was made, with its gray-and-green duvet drawn taut. A single large suitcase sat closed on a folding luggage rack near what must be the door to the bathroom. The suitcase looked like real alligator dyed red, but Dwayne knew it probably wasn’t.
Just like the woman looks real.
A pair of red high-heeled shoes with pointed toes stood precisely side by side before a louvered closet door. Above a small desk, a TV was mounted on the wall. Its large screen was gray. The brass bullet lamp on the desk provided the only light.
Linda finally released Dwayne’s perspiring hand and went to the sliding-glass doors. He couldn’t look away from the smooth play of her hips as she walked.
She pulled a cord, and gray-and-green drapes that matched the bedspread made a ratcheting sound and rushed to meet each other. The room, small to begin with, suddenly seemed half the size it had been when the dark sea and beach were exposed.
The moon no longer contributed any light. In the intimate dimness, Linda unbuttoned and pulled her shirt over her head, leaving her blond hair a tangled mess that Dwayne couldn’t help staring at. Until she bent forward, elbows out, in that curious birdlike motion women have, and deftly removed her bra.
She draped blouse and bra over the back of the desk chair and stood looking at Dwayne. Her eyes went to his erection and immediately it seemed twice as large to him.
“Better take those pants off while you can,” she said.
Neither of them said anything until they were both completely undressed, then they fell together onto the bed. They rolled back and fo
rth, hugging, kissing, wrestling for dominance. She wound up on top, kissing him with her mouth open, using her tongue.
When they drew apart in order to breathe, he said, “Wait a minute! Just a few seconds.” His mind was whirling.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.” The clothes he’d practically ripped from his body were wadded on the floor beside the bed. “I’ve got a rubber in my wallet.”
She smiled broadly, then laughed. “Really? How long’s it been in there?”
“I replaced it this morning,” he said.
More laughter. “That’s wonderful!”
He rolled onto his side, still half on the mattress, and his groping hand found the rough material of his pants. He felt for the pockets.
Found his knife.
It was past 2:00 A.M. when Linda finally died. Dwayne had been careful not to leave fingerprints.
But after showering and dressing again in his shirt, shorts, and sandals, he stood before the closed drapes and found that he didn’t want to leave.
Not yet.
Careful where he was stepping, he made his way to the bed, where what remained of Linda lay, bound with electrical cord and gagged with one of her bikini bottoms, knotted in her mouth, then knotted again at the nape of her neck. Her wide eyes were fixed and staring at the slowly revolving ceiling fan. Dwayne thought her stare was as empty as her thoughts. He had everything of her now.
Dwayne knew that blood would no longer gush. He drew his knife, leaned over the bed, and deftly carved his initials in Linda’s smooth pale forehead.
Now she was marked. Branded.
Forever.
His.
PART FOUR
The place where optimism most flourishes is the lunatic asylum.
—HAVELOCK ELLIS, The Task
of Social Hygiene
44
New York, the present
Quinn’s desk phone jangled. He liked the sound. Cell phones imitated it but couldn’t get it quite right.