Kit Kat Man said she just needed to undress, to let her chrysanthemum kimono slide down her breasts and stomach and over her thighs to the floor. “Do that over and over, while I watch.”
His eyes didn’t leave her for a second; he seemed to take in everything. He was studying her — not just her body, but also how she touched it. Her fingers undoing the silk sash, slipping the fabric from her shoulders, letting it slide over her breasts like a floral wave falling on a shore. After the third time, she was surprised to find that she was getting aroused.
Without fanfare, he removed a large sketchbook from his backpack and started drawing. In the beginning he didn’t even look at what he was drawing, just at her. As he studied her, his drawing took shape on the paper like magic. He was right; this was different. Was she supposed to pose?
“Don’t pose. Just stay natural. No one is in the room. You’re moving to an internal fantasy.” He could read minds.
Every time she tilted her neck the way strippers or models do, he’d correct her. “Natural. You’re not auditioning. You’ve already won the part. You’re perfect.”
“I like it when you talk to me.” She started touching herself. She cupped her breasts; her hands followed the soft curves to the nipples, which were already hard. How many times before had she needed to coax them to life?
She moved her right hand downward, but he told her to stop. “You’re acting again. For now, just be.”
But she was getting to the point where it wasn’t acting; she was aroused. Maybe it was his voice — soothing, strong, calm. There’d been so many animal grunts in her working life, she’d forgotten that gentle voices existed. There was something about this man, about his roaming eyes and his pencil recording what was before him. Now he was looking from her to the drawing and back again, as if his previous approach had been a warm-up. He had large, fast hands but he was delicate with the drawing, emphasizing a curve here and the tender sweetness of a nipple there.
She could see her body slowly emerging on the page. She relaxed a leg, which cocked her hip, and a moment later it appeared on his drawing pad. This was thrilling. To look at it, he seemed to know what she loved about her figure. Could she make a living doing this? They were creating art together. She’d never imagined posing for a real artist, never imagined seeing her body framed and hanging in a gallery for other people to admire. Now she was imagining walking quietly through the gallery as people stared at the drawings. She’d listen, she’d smile, she’d be asked to meet them before they took the drawings home.
Her breathing was ragged and heavy when she asked, “Can I lie down? I’d like to, you know, lie down now.”
“Yes.”
On her back, she lifted her thighs and reached between them. That caused her back to arch and she turned her face away. And then, as if anticipating his correction, she let her legs slide down the sheets. Her tummy rose and fell more quickly now, and she began caressing her breasts again. Though she didn’t realize it, she was biting her lower lip. For the first time in ages, she wasn’t doing it because she thought it would look sexy.
He kept sketching. Sometimes he’d erase a detail and start over. That showed how much he cared about her, about the likeness of her. She’d catch his eyes — so intense — following her hands, surveying her breasts, her mouth, her belly, and below. He’d occasionally smile his approval, and when he did, she’d swallow hard, overwhelmed by how movie-romantic it was. But this wasn’t a movie.
“Can I . . . do something for you?” Her voice was breathless, real.
“You’re doing it. Stay focused. Just imagine you’re all alone.”
The moment was coming on fast, deep in her belly. She closed her legs and slid her fingers downward. She was being swept forward, towards it. “Talk to me, Mister Kit Kat.”
He kept sketching. “This is good. Keep going. Lose control of yourself.”
“Am I beautiful?” she whispered, but he didn’t answer.
She could hear his pencil scratching the surface, his fingers racing, smudging lines, giving her form — bringing her to life. Her hips began an old, familiar dance, one never seen by anyone. This was private; this was special. It always had been. She was groaning and whimpering and so happy that tears streamed from her eyes onto the pillow. What was happening felt epic and out of control. An artist was capturing it on paper, where this orgasm would live forever.
A whisper; the swift passing shadow of a hand; a thick, liquid gurgle; a brief dampness, then a flood. Orchestrated to her climax, it was a moment of exaltation — followed by a brief, unimaginable horror.
He wiped the razor clean on her chrysanthemum kimono, set the wooden chair in front of the bed, and arranged the camera several feet away. Then he sat down to wait for the shutter clicks.
[41]
Charlie Maracle and Meg Lundstrom met in the interview room. By the time she’d left he had the faces, names, and current addresses for all of Paolo DeSouza’s known escorts.
“As word gets out about DeSouza,” Lundstrom said, “these girls will be picked up by other pimps. That’s how it works, so get to them fast.” She looked at his crutches and added, “If you need help, Charlie, Vice can do a roundup.”
“Okay, thanks. You check at your end and I’ll check at mine, but assume for now that it’s on.”
After she left, Maracle hopped back to the cubicle with the file folder clenched in his teeth. On the whiteboard he taped the mug shots below the photo of DeSouza dead in the alleyway: Angel White, nineteen; Dolores Sanchez, twenty-one; Anna Kershawn, twenty-eight; Melody Mason, thirty-three.
“DeSouza’s stable?” Williams asked, looking them over.
“Yeah. Last update was six months ago. His business could have expanded or shrunk, but this is a start.” He turned to make his case to Swetsky. “Vice will round them up for us, if you’re okay with that, sir.”
“Do it.”
Williams studied the headshots. “They’re not exactly the girl next door, but these women look like people you’d meet anywhere.”
“That’s the point — they’re not streetwalkers. These are ‘by appointment only’ escorts. They can probably walk into any hotel or club without anyone batting an eye.”
Vertesi raised a hand from his keyboard. “I think I’ve got something.” He’d been scanning local print and broadcast media for artists and art events. “Check this out.” He moved out of the way of his monitor. “It’s an annual art show called FotoBlast. These are from last year’s opening night. Recognize anyone?”
Shot from a balcony, the photograph looked down on a gallery space packed with people. Most had a glass of wine in hand, and while there were several couples walking about, the majority had collected in groups of three or more, talking but not looking at the work. There was only one man who stood alone. He was turned toward the camera, making his way around a cluster of people who seemed unaware of his presence. His body was partially obscured, but his head and right shoulder emerged clearly. Vertesi held the composite drawing next to the screen and, to save time, pointed to the man in a baseball cap and hoodie. Though his eyes were hidden by the cap’s peak, his jaw and mouth were visible.
“Maybe,” Williams said.
“Yeah, could be him,” Swetsky added, unconvinced.
“Ryan, can you sharpen and enlarge this guy?”
Ryan slid his chair over to Vertesi’s computer. Click-click-click and the image filled the screen. It was blurred, but Ryan adjusted the focus and contrast. “I’ll send it to my station and switch on the fabulizer. I’ll need ten minutes; there’s a bit more to do on the alley.”
No one knew what a fabulizer was, but what he’d already done had made it possible to see the close resemblance to the composite.
“Okay,” Swetsky said. “We need to track down the organizers of this event. Get a list of the artists and guests. Maybe we can put a name to that fac
e.”
“Do your magic, Ryan.”
“I’m on it.”
* * *
MacNeice took a deep breath before pushing open the cold stainless door. Its mechanical wheeze covered his uneasy exhale. Junior spotted the ruse and smiled. “Mary’s taking one of the crispies back to the fridge. She’ll be right back.”
The second body from the Ram inferno was on Junior’s table. Blacker than night, twisted and frozen in horror, it had lost all of its recognizable features. Where the joints had been broken — by emergency teams extracting it from the vehicle or by Junior’s scalpel — the contrast between black and bright pink was dramatic.
For MacNeice it was nauseating. “I’ll wait in her office, thanks.”
He was about to sit down when he heard Mary approach. “What an unexpected pleasure. With all the carnage of late, I didn’t think you’d have time to visit.”
MacNeice began to speak. “I have a few questions about the Palmer-Galanis case —”
“I thought you might. First, however, he died of asphyxiation, not from the shotgun blast. He’d been dead for hours when that happened. Whether he suffocated from the gag in his mouth, from the accumulation of blood and mucus in his air passages, or because he was encased in a chair — more likely a deadly combination of all three — it’s impossible to tell.”
MacNeice felt relieved but tried not to show it. Mary was waiting for him to say something, but he couldn’t actually think of anything.
“Right. Well, on to Mr. Galanis and his cousins. What I found in the bloodstream of burn victim number one was a strong indication of methamphetamine. Suffice it to say, I believe Junior will very shortly discover the same with burn victim number two.”
“And Galanis?”
“There we had more success. A very high dose of a methamphetamine — clearly it was shared among them. Mr. Galanis was wildly psychotic when you opened fire on him. Even with the gunshot wounds to his legs, he would have felt invincible. The kill shot entered his skull just above the left eye. It was catastrophic for the brain, of course, but I’ve sent off what remained of it for analysis. That may tell us how long he’d been on the drug and specifically which variety. But in the end, it won’t change the outcome.”
“That’s it, then.”
“Two remaining details. The man Junior’s working on was dead before the vehicle fire. And while the other one died in the fire, he would in all likelihood have succumbed to his gunshot wounds.”
MacNeice was exhausted but suddenly aware of smells that could all too easily make him vomit. With some difficulty he pulled himself out of the chair.
“Mac, are you well?”
“I just need some fresh air, Mary. I’ll be fine.”
“It’s the fluids. Junior’s draining that cadaver. Let me walk you out.”
With Richardson at his side, he managed to escape the lab without looking back at Junior and his “crispy.” On the way down the tiled corridor, she spoke softly. “As for the other two, Grant, as you know, had a broken neck and a severed knee joint. DeSouza’s fascinating, though. Blunt upward trauma applied to the nose, which sent bone and cartilage into the brainpan as if someone had swung at him with a cricket bat.”
“Close. It was done by hand. We caught it on a security camera. Both were brandishing side arms when it happened.”
“My, my. Well, he wouldn’t have known what hit him.” She shook her head slowly. “It says something, doesn’t it, that the killer didn’t use a weapon.” She stopped for a moment and looked down at the floor. “This reminds me of my favourite uncle, who was a commando during the war. I vaguely recall him telling me about that method of killing. Presumably surprise and timing are critical.”
“Meaning this isn’t your average thug?”
“I’d say military.” She fixed her gaze on MacNeice’s eyes. She might have been looking for a speck of soot or rainbows in the iris, but he knew she wasn’t. A few moments later she sighed; she had something to say. Her voice changed and she sounded almost motherly. “I think you’re becoming a magnet for demented soldiers, Detective. Knowing how these men died, I feel certain that you’re hunting another one. Take care, Mac.” She rested a hand on his shoulder before turning away.
As he watched her return to the lab, Mary Richardson seemed energized. Without looking back at him, she waved, straight-armed the door, and disappeared inside.
* * *
MacNeice approached his car, which was parked next to one of the concrete planters that defined the parking lot. He listened to the sound of house sparrows chatting up spring in the branches of a young gingko tree. As he got nearer, one bird in particular caught his attention. A female sparrow was squatting low and wiggling her behind so quickly it looked like an extreme jive. A male hopped from branch to branch above her, uncertain, it seemed, about the safest approach. When he fluttered down and came to light on her back, it looked tentative. After several attempts to hang on to her shimmying behind, he flew to another branch and waited.
MacNeice got into the car, certain that they’d work it out. As he slid the key into the ignition, the slender female landed on the hood and again began her furious dance. In seconds the male dropped down, his head tilting this way and that, and hopped onto her back again.
Were they aware of MacNeice smiling behind the windshield? He didn’t know, but it was clear that the stability of the blue hood, possibly still warm from driving, was as good as a featherbed. When it was done, the male flew back to the higher branches and fluttered his feathers. The female appeared to be resting until MacNeice turned on the engine; then she stood up and flew off across the lot to the mature trees on the other side. The male’s head swivelled back and forth before he followed.
MacNeice’s radiophone rang. “MacNeice,” he said.
“What are you up to, Mac?”
It was Deputy Chief Wallace, sounding bright, almost cheerful. MacNeice considered for a moment whether to tell him about sparrow mating rituals and how he’d watched one come to a climax on the hood of his Chevy, but decided against it. “I’m just leaving the chief pathologist’s lab.”
“Good. I’ve confirmed Elene Galanis’s employment. There was a retirement in the department, and while that sounds convenient, it wasn’t. To make their budget they weren’t going to re-staff that position. I’ve promised to pick up the shortfall elsewhere.”
“By not re-staffing Palmer’s position?”
“Jesus, you can be a sonofabitch.” Wallace sounded angry, but MacNeice could detect the relief in his voice. “Look, I’ve always felt we were top-heavy in Homicide — too many DIs. We’ll bring up a constable to replace him. After all, Mac, it wasn’t as if Palmer was doing a bang-up job.”
Before he hung up, Wallace asked how it had gone at the morgue. MacNeice gave him a topline on the latest killings and reported that Galanis and his cousins had been cranked up on speed, possibly from the moment they’d snatched Palmer.
* * *
As he was nearing the division parking lot, MacNeice received another call, this time from Vertesi. “Glenn Grove Hotel in Westdale, boss. A body in one of their rooms with her throat slashed.”
MacNeice told him they could go out together and pulled up at the division’s rear entrance. In seconds, Vertesi and Williams came through the door.
“Shotgun,” Vertesi said, reaching for the front passenger door.
“I’m used to it, Rocky. Folks will drive by thinking you’re taking me in for questioning. They’d be so confused if they saw me sitting up front.”
Once on King Street, MacNeice turned on the blue flashers and accelerated along the inside lane. He heard the click of seatbelts and realized Maracle must have mentioned his driving up on Paradise. Smiling into the mirror, he asked Williams, “You comfortable back there?”
“Peachy, sir. Just being cautious.”
The Chevy tore past
the basilica and the highway overpass, heading for Westdale. “Did a bit of research on the Glenn Grove,” Vertesi continued. “Because it’s near Brant University, the guests are mostly visiting professors, university delegations, and foreign students with heavy money from their parents. It also gets the families of patients at the BU Medical Centre.”
“There’s more to it, though . . .” MacNeice said, hitting his woop-woop siren to encourage an SUV to move over.
“Yeah. Charlie called his contact at Vice. The hotel’s night manager is known for signing in prostitutes and their johns, provided they pay a premium.”
“And our victim is one?”
Williams nodded. “It gets better. Lundstrom said the Glenn Grove — the ‘GG,’ as she calls it — is frequented by only two pimps. One of them was DeSouza. So this could be someone from his stable. Swetsky will let us know if one of Paolo’s girls doesn’t show up for her interview.”
[42]
They were met in the lobby by two uniforms, Giordano and Tyler. Giordano pointed out the night manager, who was standing near the office door. He was just finishing his shift when an outside call had come in at 11:45 a.m. The caller, a man, said someone had died in Room 213. He told him not to open the door, just to call the police. MacNeice saw an employee in a blue blazer, so drained of colour that he looked like an upright, blinking cadaver. Clearly he had opened the door.
“The night manager, Brian Whitney, says she’s an escort,” Giordano said. “Her name’s Melody Mason, thirty-three years old.”
Vertesi and Williams exchanged glances, and Williams stepped aside to call Swetsky.
“Mason checked in alone late yesterday afternoon. There are no active video cameras in the hallways and none at the rear emergency exit. There’s one in the corner here” — Giordano pointed to a camera looking down on the registration counter — “and another one at the elevator door in the underground parking garage. We haven’t seen those.”
Vantage Point Page 17