The Inferno Collection

by Jacqueline Seewald

  “Why are you reading your aunt’s diary?”

  “I found it up in the attic when I was a teenager. What she wrote in it, I could connect with because she was a teenager when she wrote it. I felt very close to her. But when Ma found me reading it, she got upset and took it away from me. I didn’t want her miserable, so I just accepted things as they were and left it alone.”

  “And now you can’t?”

  “I don’t know. Ma’s going away. I feel Jen was part of a past that I never got to know, that I should know.”

  “But if it makes your mother so unhappy…”

  “Oh, it does. But things haven’t been right between us for a long time. Ma thinks I’ve turned my back on family. When I changed my name, she and I had a terrible quarrel. I wonder if it will ever be right between us again. She hates the way I feel about Carl. I don’t think of him as my father. I know that man never loved me.” She could hear the bitterness and resentment in her voice. She lowered her eyes. “I believe that I was adopted.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “It was something Carl once said. He could be a cruel bastard, but he never lied about things.” She would not, could not, tell him about that. The pain was too deep. The feelings still too confused. She had not even discussed it with Ma those many years ago. But she had never forgiven Carl. He died unmourned by her, something Ma never understood.

  “I’m not condoning anything Carl Reyner did, but your mother was right when she said that war changes people. A lot of men came back from foreign places physical or emotional cripples, and in some cases, both.”

  “Were you in the military?” she asked, curious about him.

  “Yeah, but not like your old man. It wasn’t so bad for me. The Marine Corps was a positive influence in my life.”

  “Have you had to kill many people?” She shouldn’t have asked him that question, but it was too late to retract it now.

  He stood up, removed his jacket and showed her the police special that was holstered on his shoulder. “I don’t use this much. I’ve been involved in some shooting incidents, but not many. I’m not a violent man. Still, I do what needs to be done.” There was a grim, determined set to his jaw. “I try to help people who need help. That’s what my job is really about, same as yours. Society needs both of us, me to protect it, you to inform it.”

  She felt connected to him at that moment, something she felt for very few people. She wanted to touch him, to place her hand on his. She reached toward him. Then suddenly, she withdrew, awkward with those feelings and wanting to retreat from them. He seemed to sense that because he changed the subject.

  “Anyhow, I wouldn’t bet my next paycheck that I can find out more from Margrove than you have. Of course, I might suggest that he’s under suspicion for murder and see if he sweats a little. But from what I’ve observed so far, that kid hands out lies faster and smoother than a croupier deals cards. Then again, everybody lies to cops. It’s an unwritten law.”

  “That sounds cynical.”

  “Just honest.”

  “Can you tell when people are lying to you?”

  He nodded. “For the most part. Some of the guys in the department call me the psychologist, because I can generally figure what people are thinking.”

  “You’re perceptive.”

  He met her gaze. “It kind of goes beyond that. You understand, don’t you?”

  She didn’t answer him.

  * * * *

  Mike liked Kim Reynolds—liked her a lot—and he didn’t allow himself to feel that way about many of the people he met on duty; he was too much of a professional. He thought she had good instincts, even if she did have some problems in the form of emotional hang-ups. Probably she ought to be seeing a shrink. But she hadn’t asked for his advice, and he wasn’t about to offer it unless she did. He knew from hard experience that it wouldn’t be appreciated.

  He saw how she locked her hands together as if to keep herself in tight control. He also saw a frightened, lonely woman, naturally shy, who was fighting her private demons, but who’d summoned the courage to do what she thought was right. He wanted to take her in his arms again and kiss away her fears and doubts. Actually, he wanted a lot more. But he was a professional and he knew better than to push it. Still, when they had kissed he’d been aroused, and he knew damn well that she’d wanted him just as much as he’d wanted her. Their time would come.

  * * * *

  Just as he’d told her, he was going to put some pressure on Nick Margrove and see where it led. He’d already gotten Margrove’s schedule from the graduate school office and knew exactly where the kid was. He drove out to the campus to the language building where Margrove was teaching a composition course for freshmen. He balked only when he had to walk over a swaying footbridge that dangled high above a steep ravine. Nevertheless, when he saw with what little regard the students traversed the narrow walkway, he was damned if he’d give it any concern. One girl even whizzed across on a bicycle as he strode along. He shook his head and wondered if he was getting old, losing his edge.

  Margrove was still working with his class when Gardner arrived. He remained in the hall for another fifteen minutes, waiting until the students were finally released. During that time, he badly craved a cold beer, but refused to let his mind dwell on it. That would have to wait until he was off duty. When the last of the students departed, he walked briskly into the classroom before Margrove could finish folding up his materials.

  “Not you again. Look, I’m working now. I can’t be bothered.” Margrove quickly gathered up his books and notes.

  “Fine, I can always take you in for questioning.”

  “On what grounds? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “I’m not arresting you—yet. But police headquarters might be a better place for you to give me a statement. You know, something formal.”

  “I have another class in exactly twenty minutes,” the youth said in what Gardner considered an annoyingly affected, nasal voice.

  “How long have you been a coke user?”

  Margrove swiped at his swollen nose with a tissue. “What are you talking about?” he said defensively.

  Gardner grabbed him by the collar of his preppie shirt and shoved him hard against the wall.

  “Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Margrove was more frightened than angry.

  “I want some straight answers from you.”

  “I’ll have you charged with assault and harassment!”

  “I don’t see any witnesses, do you?” He let go of Margrove, who was shaking. “How long you been treating your body so rotten?”

  “It’s just a cold.”

  “Yeah? I’ve seen colds like yours before. Ugly habit. Who’s your supplier? Was it Forbes? Did he buy or sell or both?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do.” He hated snotty kids who put on superior airs.

  “Why don’t you go out and arrest real criminals?” the young man said indignantly. His pockmarked face seemed mottled in the darkened room.

  “Know what I think? Maybe you killed all three of those people.” He brought his index finger against the younger man’s chest in a menacing gesture. “We can place you at Forbes’ house with both of the dead girls. And we know you were one of his regulars at satanic rituals. You’re in a lot of trouble, kid.”

  “Bullshit! You have no witnesses. There’s no evidence that I killed anybody, and you won’t find any. I’m not telling you anything, and you can’t make me.”

  “You’re going to headquarters,” Gardner told him in a quiet but intense voice.

  “Like hell I am!” Margrove turned, spat right in his face and pushed him as hard as he was able. Then he rushed toward the door.

  There was no hesitation on his part; Gardner subdued his suspect with a swift blow to the gut. Margrove immediately doubled over, groaning loudly. Gardner took his arm.

  “That’s it, kid. We can m
ake it tough or easy, but you’re coming with me. Do I need handcuffs? If I have to, I’ll put you under arrest.”

  Margrove shook his head sullenly and didn’t speak again.

  * * * *

  Gardner interrogated Margrove at headquarters, but didn’t get the answers he’d hoped for. Margrove kept saying he was innocent. Then he demanded a lawyer. Gardner knew he’d have to let the kid go. There was no real evidence on which to base an arrest.

  Afterwards, he was approached by Captain Rainey, a man ten years older than himself with a beer belly and white hair that was so slicked back it could have passed for a toboggan run.

  “How’s it going with your investigation into those university homicides?”

  “Nowhere. I had to cut the kid loose I brought in. He’s been hanging real tough.”

  “Think he’s the perp?”

  “Don’t know, Cap, but he sure knows a hell of a lot more than he’s telling us.”

  Rainey struggled to raise his belt over his protruding gut, found it a losing battle, and finally gave up. “We got people asking questions about this case. Three people get whacked, it starts looking like a serial killer’s out there. It’s getting media attention and you know what that means. So keep the pressure up.”

  Gardner let out a deep sigh; this case wasn’t going down easy.

  SIXTEEN

  Kim woke up the following morning feeling much better physically than she had for some time. She phoned Wendell Firbin and told him that she would be back on the job the following day. He sounded less than pleased, but said that he would schedule her for evening hours.

  She missed being at work. If she had to watch one more afternoon of soap operas, she vowed to start sobbing louder than any of the characters on the shows. A definite good sign was that she was hungry for the first time since the fire.

  She boiled herself an egg, fixed toast, coffee and orange juice, and then did a light cleaning of the apartment. Afterwards, she took a hot shower and washed her hair. It was wonderful feeling clean and healthy again, feeling in charge of her life.

  The telephone rang at ten o’clock in the morning. She was more than a little surprised when the speaker identified himself as Nick Margrove.

  “Why are you calling me?”

  “I have something to tell you, Ms. Reynolds.” His speech sounded a trifle slurred, as if he hadn’t gotten much sleep. “Put the pig back in the pen.”

  “What?”

  “You understand me,” he continued in a surly voice. “Get that cop off my back. I know it was you who told him about me in the first place.”

  “You’re involved in the murders of three people. Naturally, Lieutenant Gardner would want to question you further. Was he somewhat overzealous in his interrogation?”

  Margrove let out an unpleasant, hollow-sounding laugh at the other end of the wire. “You could put it that way. The man was ready to cut me up in pieces and skewer until well done. I’m going to talk to a lawyer about him. He violated my civil rights. He can’t treat me that way! I’m brilliant and everyone knows it. I could have gone to any college in this country. Imagine manhandling someone like me as though I were some common criminal! That cop is a cretin.”

  Hardly an apt description of Lieutenant Gardner, but she refrained from making the observation. “You did bring Sandy to Dr. Forbes’ house, didn’t you? She told me that.”

  “The dead don’t talk. You might be wise to keep that in mind.” With that, he hung up.

  She wasn’t certain whether he had threatened her or not. Should she tell Mike Gardner about the conversation? No, why bother him? It probably didn’t mean anything except that Nick was frightened, just as he ought to be.

  The phone rang again and she hesitated, thinking it might be Nick Margrove calling back. Instead, with some relief, she heard Don Bernard’s mellifluous, cultivated voice at the other end.

  “Are you feeling up to going out to lunch today?”

  “That would be nice.”

  “I’ll even let you pick the place.”

  “I’m not fussy, just so long as I don’t have to graze. I haven’t been eating very substantially of late.”

  “Then I know just the restaurant.”

  Don picked her up at noon and took her to a pub right near the campus. She knew it to be a favorite with the male faculty, although she had never eaten there. It wasn’t the sort of place a woman usually went to by herself, unless she was looking to pick up a man at the bar.

  “Grady’s has the best beef in the city. They char a steak to perfection,” Don said. He studied her thoughtfully. “We’ll make yours rare.”

  “I’d prefer it not mooing at me.”

  His brows rose in a gesture of concern. “You’re looking a little anemic.”

  “Is that a polite way of saying that I look terrible?”

  “You? Never! Just a tad pale as if you spent an evening with a vampire.”

  “I feel as though I did, except there aren’t any puncture wounds on my neck. They treated me like a pin cushion in the hospital.”

  The hostess led them to the bar to wait for a table. Don ordered a tall Collins; Kim settled for a cranberry juice with a twist of lime. Kim looked around appreciatively. It was a nice, old-fashioned place with a dark, polished mahogany bar and paneled walls. She felt very comfortable here with Don. They chatted easily and his witticisms made her laugh. He didn’t take himself or life in general too seriously; she wished she were more like him.

  “What sort of man do you find attractive?” he asked, taking her hand. His tone was light, yet somehow intimate.

  “I prefer a man with a sense of humor—like you.” But Mike Gardner had a sense of humor too.

  Don leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You are completely ingenuous. It’s one of many things I adore about you.”

  She was glad when the maitre d’ told Don that their table was ready, since she was feeling completely out of her depth. Don went ahead and ordered salads and steaks for both of them. She asked for hers to be well done.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not one for a lot of blood. Actually, my mother would tend to overcook everything, so I got used to burned or dried-out meat along with vegetables that fell apart.”

  “Not much nutrition left after all that. Was there some reason for it?”

  “I think she once read an article on the dangers of undercooking and it just stayed with her.”

  “Don’t feel badly. My mother never attempted to cook at all. We always had a housekeeper who prepared the meals. Mother had no idea where the kitchen was, nor did she care. When our cook had a day off, we were forced to eat out.” He took her hand again. “Anyway, as a bachelor, I’ve learned to put together a few interesting dishes. Perhaps you’ll let me impress you with my culinary skills one day soon.”

  She understood what he was offering and wasn’t certain how to respond. A part of her wanted to say yes to Don, but the old wariness was there, preying upon her heart and mind, and so she changed the subject.

  “Lieutenant Gardner told me the newspapers are very interested in the campus murders,” she said.

  “Like Thoreau, I am not as interested in what is new as in what is never old.”

  “So you aren’t following what’s being written?” She spoke haltingly and regretted this subject as

  well, aware it was a sensitive topic.

  Don’s eyes met her own. “I believe it was James Fenimore Cooper who said the press, like fire, is an excellent servant, but a terrible master.”

  “You have an amazing memory.”

  He smiled at the compliment. “All part of the job. At some point, I thought it wise to swallow a book of quotations. It convinces others that I am truly wise and erudite. Just one of the ways I impress my students. Have I managed to impress you? That was the idea.” He patted her hand.

  Their salads arrived and they began to eat in silence. As she observed her surroundings, Kim was surprised to see Dr. Barnes and Dr. Packingham l
unching together at a nearby table. They appeared to be engaged in serious conversation, looking very much like Cassius and Brutus. Were they conspirators? If so, what were they plotting?

  “Sure you won’t join me in a libation?” Packingham asked Barnes.

  “No, I’m not accustomed to spirits, at least not those of a physical nature.”

  Packingham laughed in a way that indicated he was slightly inebriated.

  “I don’t think we’ll be brought into it, do you? Filthy business,” Barnes commented. “I must avoid scandal at all costs.”

  “Kim?” Don looked at her questioningly. “You seem far away.”

  “Only two tables away. Don, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  He seemed surprised. She ignored his look of displeasure and walked over to the other table.

  At the sight of her, Packingham frowned and Barnes started slightly. Obviously, they were not pleased to see her.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing you discussing the murders.”

  “Murders?” Barnes questioned in a tone of outraged sensibility. He was a big man, and his deep voice resonated. Several patrons turned curious glances in their direction.

  “Perhaps I should say homicides, as the police do. You do think they were killed, don’t you?” She looked from one man to the other.

  Neither one of the professors responded.

  “You both knew Lorette. I thought you were discussing what happened.”

  “Miss Campbell was a promising scholar,” Barnes remarked, his voice booming in the quiet dining room. “Her early demise is tragic.”

  “Yes, she was a lovely girl, very bright, fine writing ability. Who would ever have thought she’d be involved with drugs?” Packingham commented, quickly downing the whiskey he was hunched over.

  “She wasn’t involved with drugs. That was what her killer wanted people to think,” Kim said.

  “Precisely what I thought,” Barnes agreed. “All gossip. Gossip can ruin people. She wasn’t the sort to get involved in such sordid stuff.”