Play Dead

by Anne Frasier

  He took a seat. A camera and two tape recorders were turned on. After getting down the date and time, plus David's full legal name and date of birth, Spaulding moved to the real questions.

  "Are you currently under psychiatric care?"

  "I was until fairly recently." David leaned back. "I personally believe every police department should have a full-time shrink on staff."

  "Are you taking medication?"

  "No."

  "No?" Spaulding pulled out a manila folder. "We were given access to your files, and it seems it was recommended you remain on a high dosage of Paxil, plus a tranquilizer, for an undetermined amount of time."

  "I didn't feel I needed it anymore."

  Spaulding nodded. "Interesting. And you have a degree in psychiatry?"

  "Cut the crap."

  Spaulding was using a standard interrogation technique of getting information. Bait and switch. You changed the subject, hit with something from left field, then went back to the real issue. David had used the method many times himself. Of course, he'd done a better job.

  "Did you know Flora Martinez?" Spaulding asked.

  "Yes."

  "How well?" Spaulding sat across the table from David, Starsky at the opposite end, while Hutch held up the wall near the door.

  "Fairly well."

  "Weren't you a client of Ms. Martinez?"

  "I wouldn't call myself a client. We were acquaintances."

  "But you—a Savannah Police Department homicide detective—made use of her services. Isn't that correct?"

  David was pleased to note that Spaulding was getting one of those pear-shaped bodies that often caught up with detectives who spent too much time behind the wheel eating fast food.

  "Once."

  "Only once?"

  Spaulding placed a small open day planner on the table. "This date book belonged to the victim, Flora Martinez. Isn't that your name and address on page twenty-three?"

  David leaned forward. "Yes."

  "And your phone number?"

  "Yes."

  "Strange that a onetime—"

  David was sure he would have said fuck if the interview weren't being recorded.

  "—exchange ... would gain you a permanent place in her address book."

  "I called her once. After that, we became . . . friends." Not the right word. What had they been? Lovers? Not the right word either.

  "Isn't it true that Flora Martinez was obsessed with you? That she often parked outside your apartment, waiting for you to come and go?"

  "Obsessed? I wouldn't call it obsessed. She liked me because I'm a detective. Some women get off on that kind of thing. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

  The GBI agent was the kind of guy who would have used his badge to get a woman in bed.

  Spaulding placed a small plastic bag on the table. After snapping on a pair of latex gloves, he unzipped the bag and extracted a chunk of red flannel. The nose-stinging stench of old urine filled the small room, and everyone but Spaulding recoiled.

  The flannel turned out to be a small drawstring pouch. Spaulding opened it and removed an object wrapped in wet grocery paper. "We found this with some of the victim's belongings." He unrolled the paper and spread it on the table.

  David's full name was written over and over. Going in the other direction were the words Love me or die, also written numerous times.

  Jeez. That was sick as hell. David thought about the way Flora had started coming around, as if he would welcome her as a girlfriend. The way she seemed surprised and shocked when he told her she was going to have to stay away. "This place is so fucked," he said, shaking his head.

  "Have you ever seen this?" Spaulding asked, indicating the weird mess he'd dumped on the table.

  "No."

  "Do you know what it is?"

  "I'll bet you'd like to tell me," David said, trying not to blink as ammonia fumes stung his eyes.

  "It's called a mojo. It's supposed to cast a spell over the person whose name is written on the paper. Which would be you. I asked around. In order to keep the spell active, Flora would have urinated on it every day. I'd call that obsessed, wouldn't you?"

  David would simply call it fucked-up.

  Flora. Jesus. What had she been thinking?

  "In fact, she was stalking you, wasn't she?"

  "She wasn't a stalker. I was usually glad to see her, although I did eventually ask her to quit coming around."

  "Did she?"

  "For a while."

  "Why didn't you report her to the police?"

  David looked at him. "Totally unnecessary."

  "If a prostitute was calling me, sometimes several times a day, plus hanging around my residence—I would have reported her."

  "Of course you would have," David said sarcastically. Lying bastard.

  "When did you last see Flora Martinez?"

  "May eleventh." David thought a moment. "May twelfth, actually." By the time they were finished having sex.

  "So she was with you late on the eleventh, early on the twelfth? Is that correct?"

  Spaulding stood and put a foot on the seat of his chair, an elbow on his knee, and leaned in closer. 'Tell me about May twelfth."

  There was no way David was going to tell him what led to his breakdown that day. "I went jogging. When I returned, Flora was waiting outside my apartment. End of story."

  "Did she, spend the night?"

  "I don't know how long she stayed. I fell asleep. She was gone when I woke up."

  The agent opened his briefcase, pulled out a piece of paper, and slid it across the table. The coroner's preliminary report. "You can skip down to the bottom," Spaulding said. 'To where it says 'approximate date and time of death.'"

  May 11, 2000 hours, to May 13, 0200. "That's a big spread," David said.

  "Water does that. As I'm sure you know." "Right."

  "But as you can see, a significant portion of that time overlaps with Flora's visit to your apartment."

  David slid the paper back across the table. "What are you saying, Spaulding?"

  "I'm saying that you are a prime suspect in the murder of Flora Martinez."

  "That's what I thought you were saying."

  "Another thing you might take note of from the autopsy report—Flora Martinez's throat was cut, just like Enrique Xavier's. You know what I think? I think you mimicked the Xavier murder to throw us off. That's what I think. So, is there anything you'd like to tell us?"

  David got to his feet. They had no evidence; they couldn't hold him. "Other than to ask if your mother picks out your clothes?"

  Spaulding laughed and shook his head. David had to admit it was a pretty weak insult, but he was under stress.

  "Major Hoffman wants to see you in her office." Spaulding looked at the two detectives. "Escort him, will you? We don't want him to get lost and end up in his car, heading for Florida."

  *

  "I'm going to have to ask you to turn in your badge," Major Hoffman said.

  David already had it in his hand.

  "I've had numerous complaints about you over the past three months." She lifted a small stack of papers. "Would you like to see them?"

  "That's okay."

  "These complaints, along with your unprofessional connection to Flora Martinez, reflect poorly on the police department. I have to let you go."

  David placed his badge on Major Hoffman's desk. Then he pulled out his police department gun, unloaded it, and put it and the bullets beside the badge.

  He didn't blame the major. She couldn't take a chance on him. And then there was the media. They were going to love this.

  "This is a real shame," Major Hoffman said sadly. "I think you could have been one of my best detectives. Too bad you're hell-bent on self-destruction."

  David thought about Strata Luna's curse and the cluster effect. All excuses. The major was right; he'd brought this on himself.

  "Stay in town," she told him. "We may need to bring you in for more questioning."


  He nodded and backed out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

  In Elise's office, David shook the contents of his desk drawers into a cardboard box.

  It was amazing how much shit a person could accumulate in a short time. It looked like he'd been there for years, not months.

  He regarded his loot.

  Pens. Pencils. Paper. Receipts. Notebooks. Notes.

  Nothing. Just stuff taking up space.

  He carried the box to the trash can and dumped it.

  From the bulletin board, he removed the photo of him and Elise. He stared at it a moment before tucking it into his jacket pocket.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall.

  The door crashed open. "I just heard," Elise said.

  She was out of breath. She was pissed. At him?

  "They can't do this!" she said angrily.

  "Forget it, Elise. Let it go," he told her softly.

  He'd felt this kind of calm a few times in his life. It was a nice feeling. As if some gentle saint had taken up residence in his body. "It's okay."

  "It's not okay."

  "I wasn't going to last here. We both knew that. Everybody knew that. Didn't expect it to happen this way, but does it really matter?"

  He was actually surprised to find that it did matter. To him.

  All along, he'd been thinking he maybe needed to get out of law enforcement completely. But now that it was happening, it seemed wrong.

  And then there was Elise.

  She'd been a good partner. And they were really starting to click.

  "Of course it matters!" Elise said. "I can't believe you're giving up so easily. That you allowed Mason and Avery to get to you."

  "Who are Mason and Avery?"

  She glared at him. "Starsky and Hutch."

  "Oh. Them."

  He let out a heavy sigh. "Elise, this has nothing to do with them. It has nothing to do with the fact that I keep losing popularity contests around here. I'm a murder suspect."

  "That's bullshit if you think this has nothing to do with your status. Do you think Mason—Starsky— would be fired over this? No! They would cover it up until the real killer was found, and then all would be forgotten. He might get a little slap on the wrist for such a personal endorsement of prostitution."

  "I'm sorry." He really was. He liked Elise.

  "What were you thinking? Calling a prostitute to begin with? Getting mixed up with her?"

  "That's rather self-explanatory."

  His answer seemed to make her uncomfortable.

  "David ... did your ex-wife have long dark hair?"

  "Yeah, but—"

  "You know what people downstairs are saying? They're saying that the anniversary of your son's death was May twelfth, the same night Flora visited your apartment."

  "That's right."

  "And when Flora arrived that night with her long dark hair, you flipped out and killed her, thinking she was your wife."

  He stared at her for a long time as she waited for an answer, a reaction. Not Elise ... that hurt. That really hurt. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," he said.

  He left the office.

  As he passed a trash receptacle, he paused and pulled the photo from his jacket. He held it above the container for what seemed like minutes, but in real clock time was probably only a second or two.

  He'd lived a lot of lives. Even though the photo now represented the end rather than the beginning, he couldn't make himself pitch it.

  He stuck it back in his pocket and kept walking.

  Outside, the media was waiting.

  Bad news traveled fast.

  Chapter 40

  Someone was knocking.

  David tried to ignore it while continuing to pack.

  The knocking didn't stop.

  Annoyed, he tossed a shirt in the suitcase on the foot of his bed, went to the door, and checked the peephole.

  In the dim hallway stood a woman in a black veil and long black dress.

  Lady in a black veil

  Babies in the bed...

  Strata Luna. Was she stalking him now?

  He opened the door. "Come to remove your curse?"

  She lifted a gloved hand and blew at her cupped palm.

  He didn't see anything, but suddenly a bitter, metallic taste filled his mouth. Instantly, his tongue swelled and went numb.

  Fuuuckkk.

  He took two steps back and struggled to close the door.

  She shoved it open, followed him into the apartment, and slammed the door.

  Just the two of them.

  Strata Luna. Who had probably killed her daughters. Had probably killed Enrique. Had probably killed Flora. Obsessed with death. Obsessed with killing. Playing God. It was just too easy ... too obvious. ...

  He lurched and grabbed his cell phone from the kitchen counter.

  How much time did he have before he was completely paralyzed? Two minutes? Three? At the most?

  But he'd snorted the shit. That would be faster.

  He stared at the phone in his hand.

  He knew what he wanted to do, but his brain couldn't get the message to his fingers.

  Where did he fit in? What did she want with him?

  Woman in a black veil

  Looking for something male

  Fuck him till his eyes turn blue

  Bury him when she's through.

  He'd never claimed to be a poet.

  The phone slipped from his numb fingers.

  He began to float.

  Up, up to the ceiling.

  She caught him by the arms and pulled him earthward, holding him in front of her so he couldn't float away again.

  His legs gave way and he crumpled to the floor and lay there, unable to move.

  She swooped down and straddled him. She sank into him, the billowing folds of her gown swallowing him. Looming above, her veil fell over his eyes as she cupped his face in her hands.

  She smelled like mold and mildew and damp rot. Plus something else. What? Something familiar ... Formaldehyde and rotten meat. She pressed her lips to his, her breath filling him with poison. The air that came from her lungs tasted like rubbing alcohol.

  He couldn't move. He couldn't close his mouth or turn his head away.

  "Little boy," she crooned against his lips. "Sexy little boy."

  Chapter 41

  Elise was trying not to let the situation with David interfere with her investigation of the TTX case. And the best way to help David was to try to clear his name. With that in mind, she decided to drop by the Chatham County Jail for another visit with their buddy LaRue, to see if he might be in the mood to divulge any new information.

  He seemed happy to see her.

  She was company. A break from tedium.

  She slid a photo of Flora across the table to him. "Ever seen her?" she asked.

  "Once or twice. At Black Tupelo."

  "Talk to her?"

  "No." He passed the photo back. "I only noticed her, that's all."

  She pulled out another photo, this one of Enrique. "How about him?"

  Bingo. His reaction gave him away.

  LaRue stared at the photo while obviously trying to formulate an answer, trying to figure out if he should tell the truth or lie. "I sold him TTX," he finally said with resignation, his shoulders drooping as he passed the photo back.

  "Earlier, you said you never sold TTX."

  He didn't answer.

  "Which is it? Did you or didn't you sell TTX?"

  "I did."

  Elise leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Tell me about it."

  "He would come in a big black car. A Lincoln, maybe. Somebody was in the backseat."

  "Strata Luna?"

  "Probably, but I couldn't see. The windows were dark."

  "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

  "I didn't want to get into any more trouble. But I'm no murderer. You know that, don't you?"

  At least not a deliberate one, she thought. But he'd sti
ll poisoned her.

  Elise got to her feet. "I'll see what I can do to get you out of here." She'd already decided to drop the charges, but she wasn't ready to tell him just yet.

  He was a scientist. A screwed-up genius. Prison would be a terrible waste.

  Heading for the parking lot, Elise mulled over the new information. If what LaRue said was true, then Enrique had been somehow involved in the TTX case, at least peripherally. A big black car with tinted windows. Pretty straightforward. Both Enrique's and Flora's throats had been cut. By Strata Luna? Because they'd known something?

  Elise had grudgingly liked Strata Luna. She hadn't wanted to believe she was involved. Had she allowed Strata Luna's connection to Jackson Sweet to cloud her judgment?

  As Elise approached the car, her cell phone rang.

  It was Seth West, Truman Harrison's coworker.

  "You know how you said to call you if I thought of anything else?" he asked. "Well, I was on vacation in Disney World and we were on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, and I remembered that Truman went into the tunnels under Savannah the day he died."

  Elise perked up.

  "We'd had a report of a possible sewer line break. Near the intersection of President and Bay. He had to go in through a grate in one of the old sealed cotton storerooms to check it out and write up a repair order if we needed it. I said no way was I going down there. I knew it would be nasty as hell, but Truman didn't seem to mind.

  "He was gone a long time, and when he came back he said the place was full of cockroaches. They were crawling on him. In his hair. In his shirt."

  "Did he tell you anything else?"

  "Said it looked like homeless people had been living down there. Sleeping on filthy mattresses. Can you imagine?"

  "Sounds horrid," she agreed.

  "Does that help you at all? I kept thinking it was silly to bother you, but my wife said I should let you know."

  "You were right to call."

  After disconnecting, Elise immediately put in a call to Eddie, her favorite contact in the research department. He could find out anything, no matter how obscure.