Wolfman - Art Bourgeau

by Art Bourgeau

  The man on the ground tried to get up. Brian kicked him in the face.

  "No, stop. I’l1 do it." She moved her hands and sat there for him. Her body wasn’t as good as he'd thought.

  "Give me your purse."

  She slid it across the seat. He took it and pulled the keys from the ignition, tossed them on the road somewhere ahead, then he took her wallet out of her purse and turned to the man on the ground. "I'll take yours now, Slim.’

  The man reached into his back pocket without trying to get up again. Brian took it from him. It was one of those nylon wallets with a Velcro flap. He hated that kind of wallet and thought about kicking the man again but didn't. Instead, he pointed the gun at him and cocked it. The sound of the cylinder turning was sweet. The man lay still at his feet. Brian wondered what he was thinking.

  The woman leaned across the seat, her breasts swaying.

  "Please . . . I’ll do anything you want . . ." Tears were streaming down her face.

  Brian smiled. "This is just to let you know that now I know where you live. If you tell anyone about this, I’ll come for you and I’ll kill you."

  "We won’t . . . I promise . . . we won’t . . . Dear God, just go . . ."

  He thought about staying around and toying with them a little longer but knew it was a risky idea. He turned and started up the road, glancing back at them as he went. The woman was out of the car and on her knees trying to help the man. He knew she was telling the truth. They would be no trouble. A few hundred yards into the darkness he turned and climbed the hill into the woods where his bicycle was hidden.

  It had been a good night. He paused long enough to take the money from the wallets, then throw them away. With the moonlight only filtering through the trees he couldn't see how much he’d gotten, but time enough for that later.

  He pushed the bicycle, moving deeper into the woods. There was a path nearby that he knew would take him back to Wissahickon Avenue without meeting up with his victims again. It was one of the things he liked best about this spot. As the wheels of the bicycle turned they made a soft, clicking sound, not unlike the cylinder of his revolver. The clicking sounded out of place in the woods. He paused for a second to listen for the sound of the car engine that would mean his victims were on their way. He heard nothing.

  "Probably still too scared," he said aloud, thinking of the woman’s breasts as she leaned across the seat toward him. "I should have played with them . . ." he muttered. Then he heard another sound. A faint, rustling near him. The wind's beginning to pick up, he thought. He felt the first drop of rain. "Better get home," he said. "Wouldn’t want to have to explain a bunch of wet clothes to mom."

  He pushed the bicycle on, wishing it didn't make the clicking sound it did. The rustling stopped, then started again. His thoughts went back to the woman. Yes, he should at least have touched her breasts. Tomorrow that’s what he would do with Traci after the basketball game . . . make her sit there with her clothes open before he’d give her any coke. She would do anything for a line or two.

  A branch snapped nearby, like someone stepped on it? He stopped, listened. He looked to where he thought the sound came from but saw nothing except the outlines of the trees and brush, just shadows in the faint moonlight.

  More drops of rain hit him. He turned up his collar to keep their stinging coldness from his neck. The path was near, then a short distance to Wissahickon Avenue and the ride home, but now something about the woods had changed. He cou1dn't tell what, only that he felt uneasy, a light prickling along the back of his neck.

  He tried to dismiss it. For years he’d played in these woods . . . but the feeling didn't go away. His hand went to his waistband to check his gun. It was gone. He patted himself down but it was no use, he’d dropped it somewhere along the way. He had to find it.

  Leaving his bicycle behind he started to retrace his steps. A flashlight would make the job easier, he thought, but he hoped the metal would gleam in the moonlight. He stepped carefully on the carpet of dead leaves, trying not to move around and possibly cover it up. He would not go home without it.

  His concentration was so great that at first he didn't hear the rustling when it started again. When he did it was closer and slightly behind him, distinctly different now from the wind in the trees or the falling rain. It was the sound of something moving in the brush.

  "Probably just a dog," he said aloud. "Nothing to worry about He continued his search, but moving more quickly. The shuffling noises continued with him, seemed closer now. He didn’t actually think it, but he felt something new to him . . . he was no longer the predator, pursuer. He was the intended victim, the pursued.

  He hated the feeling. Now he had to find that gun. The noises were louder now. He could hear a grunting, animal — noise with the shuffling. It had to be a dog. Sure. He picked up a rock and threw it in the direction of the sounds. It bounced harmlessly off the trees. He threw another, and heard the noises retreat.

  "Good," he said, "that'll show you."

  He listened for a moment. The woods were quiet again except for the wind in the trees and the rain falling harder. He was almost back to Hortter Street. Only a couple hundred more yards. The gun had to be here somewhere. Then by God he'd show that dog.

  Almost at his elbow he heard a low growl. The dog had not gone away, it had moved ahead of him in the woods. Jesus, what if it was rabid . . . He looked around for another rock. As he bent to pick one up he heard a snarl and was knocked flat by a heavy weight on his back.

  His face was buried in the wet leaves. He felt hot breath on his neck, and tried to fight back, to get free. Over and over they rolled, this crazy dog growling and snarling like no dog he'd ever heard. In the faint light he caught a glimpse of feverish eyes, lips pulled back from teeth. It was no dog that was attacking him, it was a man. He tried to hit out with his fists but was overpowered.

  He managed to roll to his stomach, trying to protect himself. As he did he raised his head. Just out of reach he saw the gun in the leaves. He swung his elbows hard as he could, trying to break free. No use. He tried to crawl, the man still on his back, his legs almost around him.

  Now pain sharper, more intense than anything he’d ever felt as teeth ripped the side of his neck. He screamed a silent scream, his face buried in the wet leaves. Warm blood began to cover his neck and face from his torn carotid artery.

  He barely raised his head again as he tried to reach the gun. It was the last thing he saw before the clawlike fingers dug into his eye sockets.

  CHAPTER 13

  AT STANLEY Hightower's office Cheryl Goldman and Mercanto were again sitting opposite each other. There was a puzzled look on Cheryl's face. "When I called your office to see if there was any news about when Stanley’s body would be released I was told you were no longer on the case."

  Mercanto adjusted his coat to ease the pressure on his rib. This time he’d brought the painkillers with him. If he needed a couple he was going to take them.

  "That's right," he said. "I’m officially on sick leave. I was shot the other night."

  "Oh . . . I'm sorry. How did it happen?"

  Even with the painkillers he was having trouble sleeping. Every time he moved, the pain woke him, and the two together were taking their toll on him.

  He shrugged. "I got to thinking about the case the night after I was there and drove out to the park where he was killed. A kid held me up. When I tried to arrest him, he shot me."

  "God, how awful . . . Do you think he might be the one that killed Stanley?"

  "It's a possibility . . . the place was the same, and the gun was the same type . . . There are a few more questions I'd like to ask you . . ."

  "Fire away," she said, then she laughed. "Sorry, that didn’t come out like I meant it."

  Mercanto smiled. It eased the way for his questioning.

  "When we talked last time I didn’t mention that we found drugs in Stanley's apartment. Can you tell me anything about them?"

  "Why no, o
f course not . . . Why is this important anyway? It sounds like you know who did it and all you have to do is catch him."

  "Maybe," Mercanto said, "but I'm not sold on the idea that this kid's the killer. Certain things were different about the two incidents . . ."

  "Like what?"

  "I can’t go into that right now, but trust me, if you knew you’d agree."

  She looked skeptical. "The last time someone said 'trust me' he . . . never mind."

  "If it will make it any easier for you, I’ve talked to John and Elizabeth Cohen. They’ve confirmed that for the past few months he was using a large amount of drugs. Approximately the same period as the withdrawals from his bank account, and his depression."

  She thought about it for a moment. Mercanto sat waiting. Waiting was what a cop did most of the time.

  Finally she said, "It's true, he was doing a lot of drugs the past few months . . . I guess by our association it means I was doing a lot, too."

  He liked her honesty. He also liked the way she stood by Hightower. Loyalty and honesty didn't come along much in his line of work.

  "That's not what I'm here for," he said. "My job is to see his killer brought in. When I was talking with the Cohens they mentioned that Stanley bought his drugs from Jamaicans, but they didn't know who. Do you?"

  She nodded. "His name was Rashid, that’s all I know. I never saw him, but Stanley mentioned him a couple of times."

  At least he had a name. That could account for the call Elizabeth Cohen saw Stanley make from Lagniappe. With so much in his apartment it wasn’t likely he was buying that night, but maybe he was going to pay somebody off. Drug dealers didn't usually give credit, but when you're talking about big withdrawals, a new set of rules could apply.

  "Where would they usually meet?"

  "I don't know," she said. "All he ever told me was the man's name . . . I can't help you any more than that."

  As he stood up to go he said, "Did he call you between one-thirty and two the night he was killed?"

  When he heard her say no he had to smile. Now he was sure that call was made to the killer. . .

  From Hightower's office he drove to a loft building at Eighteenth and Callowhill. Stenciled on the heavy steel door was the word "Dominique." He pressed the buzzer under the intercom. After a moment a voice asked who it was. The intercom had so much static he couldn't tell if the voice was male or female. He identified himself, and the voice said, "Just a minute."

  The minute stretched to five before the door opened. Standing in front of him was a young man with a spiky two-toned crewcut, blond and green.

  "Sorry, I couldn't hear you too well upstairs."

  Mercanto showed his badge. "I'm here to see Mrs. Hightower."

  The young man led him to a freight elevator that they took to the third floor. The elevator opened into a large room that took up the whole floor. People were working at cutting tables, sewing machines or drawing boards. In the center of the room, on a small platform, a man and a woman were fitting and pinning a dress to a mannequin while a small dark-haired woman dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck stood off to one side watching.

  The man with the crewcut pointed. "That’s her."

  "Mrs. Hightower . . ."

  She turned, eyes flashing. "My name is not Hightower. It’s Bouquet . . . Dominique Bouquet," she said with a heavy French accent.

  He showed her his badge. "Sorry, I’ll remember next time . . . is there somewhere we can talk?"

  "Come with me."

  He followed her to the elevator and the fourth floor. Like the third it was also one large room, but it was broken up with free-standing black-and-white partitions cordoning it off into different sections. The one they were in was dominated by a large sectional sofa in black suede with a gold standing lamp at each end.

  "Your living quarters?" he said, looking around. She sat down on the sofa, tucking one leg under her. "Yes," she said.

  "Now I know who decorated your husband’s offices."

  A look of interest crossed her face. "Ex-husband," she said. "How do you know that?"

  He sat down beside her. As he sank into the cushions he could feel the pain begin again in his chest, and he had to sit forward.

  "I've seen his apartment and his offices. This looks more like his offices than his apartment. I like it better," he said.

  "I take that as a compliment. Now what can I do for you?"

  "I’m investigating Mr. Hightower's murder. I need to ask a few questions. Had you any regular contact with your ex-husband since the divorce?"

  She picked up a pack of cigarettes from the coffee table and lit one. "I'm not sure what you mean . . . regular contact. We spoke, yes. I told the other officers that when they made me look at his body. We had drinks together once or twice, that's it. I loved him very much. The divorce hurt me. It was better that I forget him. Why do you ask?"

  "Would you mind telling me why you were divorced?"

  "He fell out of love with me."

  "Are you also saying that he fell in love with someone else?" he asked, remembering his conversation with the Cohens. Elizabeth had mentioned she thought he was involved with someone else but didn't know who, that his good spirits ended and she assumed the relationship was over.

  "If you like," she said. Mercanto looked at her closely. She was very pretty.

  "Who was it?"

  "I don’t know . . . he wouldn’t say . . . This has been hard for me. After a divorce a woman still feels things . . . you wouldn’t understand."

  "Try me."

  "She wonders if maybe it was her fault. What did she do that was wrong, then to see him like that . . . dead, and hurt like that . . ." She shook her head.

  Mercanto said, "Right now we’re trying to find a man named Rashid. . ."

  She raised her eyebrows. "So you think it had something to do with drugs?"

  "It's possible. We found a large amount in his apartment and for the last few months he’d been taking a lot of money out of his checking account."

  She drew on her cigarette. "Stanley liked many things . . .wine, cocaine, sex. He was a hedonist, but not to the excess you’re thinking. I do not say he couldn’t have been killed by someone involved in drugs, but I know him, he did not spend the money on drugs."

  ` She seemed so sure. "What then?"

  "He was a generous man. He put the girl in his office through school. He set up my business. Perhaps he just gave it to someone . . ."

  "What about Rashid? What can you tell me about him?"

  "He is a Jamaican, that’s all I know. I never met him, only heard Stanley speak of him."

  "Do you know where I can find him?"

  "All I know is somewhere on Germantown Avenue."

  Outside, he sat in the car for a few minutes. At least Rashid felt more right to him for the murder than the kid, no matter what Sloan thought. The kid, he reviewed, panicked and ran after shooting him without even getting his wallet, which was what the holdup was about. That wasn't how it happened with Hightower. Whoever shot him was first of all inside the car, not outside like the kid. Second, after he shot him he took the wallet, and then proceeded to mutilate the body.

  Teeth marks, that's what the Medical Examiner said. And a word came to his mind, one no one ever wanted to use. . .cannibalism.

  No question, someone who would do something like that was out of control, over the edge. Not true with the kid. He was a street punk, that's all. Otherwise Mrs. Mercanto’s boy would have wound up like Hightower. Was this Rashid that much out of control . . . or could it have been some sort of ritual? A message to others? Rashid was Jamaican. Maybe it was something like voodoo or that movie he’d seen about Haitian zombies. It was a possibility to consider . . . Or was it just the work of a certifiable madman? Stories like it were already leaking out about the house of death in North Philly that Sloan was investigating.

  His chest was starting to hurt again. He started the car and headed for home. At the rate he was recovering it was g
oing to take the whole six weeks of convalescent leave before he was normal again.

  Inside his apartment he put on a tape of Miles Davis' softer stuff like My Funny Valentine and Flamenco Sketches and went to make a fire only to discover he was out of wood. All he had was one of those damned chemical logs.

  "Better than nothing," he muttered as he placed it in the fireplace and lit the paper it was covered in. He took two painkillers and stretched out on the sofa but couldn't sleep. He was too worn down from the pain and too keyed up by the case.

  He got up and went to the kitchen table. Stanley Hightower’s checkbook and address book were there. He went through the checks again, wishing they could somehow tell him more than they had so far. They must have been for Rashid, there was no other explanation. No one gives away fifty thousand dollars, even generous Stanley Hightower. He went to the address book. What if Rashid’s phone number was there? He turned pages. Nothing under "R," maybe it was by his last name with a first initial. He started at the beginning, went through it page by page. Nothing — until in the M's he stopped cold. Frank's phone number was there. He looked at it for a long moment, shook his head, went to the phone.

  Frank answered on the fifth ring. His voice sounded weaker than last time. "Feel up to some Italian? You always liked that?"

  "Yeah, sure," Frank said. "What have you been up to lately? I haven't seen you."

  "Working on a case . . . Listen, Frank, how do you know Stanley Hightower? Your name's in his phone book."

  "That the case you're working on? I’ve been reading about it. Sounds like a rough one. Yeah, I used to work on his car . . . a black BMW. I tinted the windows for him. Remember he wanted them real dark. Seemed like a nice guy."

  Mercanto pulled on his coat and walked to Mama Yolanda’s on Eighth Street. It wasn’t five yet and the place was empty except for Dee, who was setting up tables, and John, the owner. When John saw him he smiled broadly. "Hey Nate, what'd you say? Come on in here, have a beer. . . on me."