He stood, walked across the room and opened the storage closet door. Bending, he removed two loose floorboards and pulled out a doll. The naked, make-believe baby had a contented look etched on its face.
The villain knelt and reached further back into the hole, searching for his stack of signature blue cloths. He unfolded one and wrapped the doll inside, then leaning back on his heels, focused on what needed to be done.
The words, "I don't want to be with you anymore, and I certainly don't want to bear your children," rang painfully in his head. Anger flooded through him, and his fingers bit into the doll's plastic body. His ire turned his breaths to panting; he craved fresh air and a smoke. Besides, he had no need to hurry. The bitch wasn't going anywhere; he'd tied her nice and tight. This time would be different. He wasn’t going to just ease his hatred for women by killing her, he planned to have a little sexual fun before taking pleasure in killing her. The feel of his hands around her throat, as with all the others, would bring him peace. At least, for a while. A cigarette and then sex…he’d done things backwards before. He made his own rules.
***
Dodging traffic to cross the street back to The Cairns, Cynthia struggled with her rising panic. Something was terribly wrong, she felt in her heart. Alex would never do anything to worry her, especially under the circumstances.
The stairs creaked as she made her way up, and no matter how hard she tried to convince herself that he'd just stepped out and would soon return, the facts convinced her otherwise. Alex wouldn't leave without letting her know. Even if he did, he would have secured the door and taken her purse. Dread settled like a rock in the pit of her stomach.
She unlocked the door and perused the room. Was there something she'd overlooked? The kitchen was undisturbed, and the bedroom looked fine. The bed was unmade, but that was usual for Alex. The small, cramped bathroom was a mess. Her cosmetics littered the counter and her hairbrush rested on the sink, but she saw nothing in the way of a clue.
Back in the living room, her attaché case on the table showed he'd come home from work. It made sense; he had to have been in the building before the cameras started recording. Her senses told her he was still somewhere in The Cairns, and she needed to find him before it was too late. Faces of previous victims flashed in her mind and sent a shiver down her spine.
She sat at the table and rested her head in her hands. She tried to think about things from Alex's perspective. What would he do? She knew what Cynthia would do. She'd cry. The tears welled and although she fought against it, they spilled down Alex's cheeks. She swiped them away, her hands brushing the stubbly growth of his five-o'clock shadow.
"Get a grip, Cynthia," she commanded. "You can't just curl up in a ball and cry. You need to find Alex and your body."
Pulling herself together, she stood and rubbed her eyes with both hands to make sure all traces of wetness were gone. John Cratski, or whoever he claimed to be, was about to receive a visit. She squared her shoulders and stormed out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Cynthia made her way down the stairs wondering what she would say when Cratski opened the door…if he opened the door. Her thoughts flashed to the burned out bulb upstairs. The perfect lead-in, a needed replacement.
Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the super's door. Hearing movement inside, she waited. She really wanted to run away, but her feet stayed firmly planted and she steeled herself for what she might find.
The door inched open enough for beady eyes to peer through the slit. "Yeah, what is it?"
His form blocked the opening and she couldn't see anything. Filled with bravado, she leaned against the door, hoping it might open a little further. But Cratski, or whoever he was, held it fast.
"Sorry to bother you, but I thought you should know that one of the bulbs in the hallway upstairs needs a replacement. It's rather dark up there."
"I'll get to it as soon as I can," he grumbled, then shut the door in her face.
"Damn!" Cussing was appropriate under the circumstances and she didn't care who heard her. Before she lost her nerve, she knocked a second time.
"What?" Cratski asked angrily, peeking out. "I told you I'd get to it."
"I just wanted…well, I just wonder if you've seen Ms. Freitas today?"
He opened the door a little wider and rested against the jamb. "No, why? Should I have?"
"I'm concerned about her. I found her door open and she wasn't inside. I thought perhaps you might have seen or heard something in your capacity as building superintendent." Cynthia didn't care if he knew someone was nosing around. Maybe it would make him nervous.
The smell of stale cigarette smoke emanated from his clothing and his hair was in need of combing. He straightened and suddenly seemed interested in what Cynthia had to say. "Do you know the last time anyone saw her?"
"No, but her purse is in the apartment so she was there. She generally gets home around five." Cynthia flinched. Wasn't she the one who was supposed to be asking questions? "So, you've not seen her?" She took control again.
"No, but maybe you should report her missing."
"I will. Thanks for your time."
Cynthia walked away, pondering his reaction. Why would he suggest filing a report if he was in some way involved? Cratski seemed way too interested, but concerned at the same time. Plus, nothing tied him to Alex's disappearance.
Conducting police business wasn't for the untrained, especially when someone's life might be on the line. She walked the upstairs hallways looking for something...anything to lead her to Alex but found nothing but the same tired carpeting and dreary paint. She descended the stairs, this time with a keen eye for clues. Still nothing. Disappointment tightened her chest.
With no desire to go back upstairs only to sit and worry, she stepped out onto the sidewalk and straight into the path of Thomas Carpenter. The shapely rear-end of a female passerby held his gaze, and he walked right into Cynthia.
He looked up with wide eyes. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I should be watching where I walk."
Cynthia glanced at the woman he'd been watching, then back to Carpenter's pockmarked face. "Maybe you should. You might hurt yourself if you're not careful."
Carpenter's Adam's apple wobbled with a hard swallow. "How's Miz Freitas been?" His smile looked forced.
Cynthia didn't care to engage in chit chat. She gazed down at the creepy little man. "Do you spend all your free time out here watching women come and go?"
"Not all of it! Though I do admit I have an eye for the ladies. I don't believe there's a law against it, is there?"
"No, there's no law for just looking." She eyed him as he watched another woman pass. "But there should be one for slobbering while you do it."
Carpenter's mouth gaped, and for once, he stood speechless.
Trying to stifle a smile at having put the letch in his place, Cynthia gazed across the street, knowing Mike watched. Maybe she'd sit with him until his shift ended. She had no idea what else to do. At least having someone to talk to would keep her mind occupied, and maybe they could put their heads together and find a way to locate Alex.
Carpenter opened the lobby door. "I guess I'll go in. Not many people out this time of the evening."
"Good night, Mr. Carpenter," she said as she walked away, feeling she'd struck a blow for womankind. Of course, it didn't hurt that she delivered the insult as a burly, well-developed man.
After checking both ways and waiting for a break in traffic, Cynthia crossed, went inside and waited for the elevator.
Mike didn't seem surprised to see her when he opened the door. "I figured it was you. I saw you talking to that ogling idiot."
Cynthia nodded in agreement with Mike's description. She stepped inside. "I hope you don't mind the company. I'm going nuts trying to think of what to do. I guess I'll call in a missing person's report. At least, if there's an all points bulletin issued, there will be more people looking for her."
"You can call it in, but normally a pers
on has to be missing for twenty-four hours before anything can be done."
Cynthia hadn't known that rule but was adamant. "I'm still calling it in. Surely Alex…I have some pull with the department." She picked up the phone and dialed.
Afterwards she called her place of employment and told them Cynthia Freitas needed to request an emergency leave. She wished she could have told them how long she would be gone, but she left it open-ended. They weren't happy. Worry over losing her job niggled at her, but she pushed it to the back of her mind. In the present scope of things, she feared losing something much more important, herself.
***
Mike had gone home and left Cynthia to watch the monitors. She balled her hands into fists and wiped at her tired eyes. For hours she had stared at the front and back of The Cairns, and saw absolutely nothing but the same red bricks, glass entry or littered alley. No one had come or gone. Earlier, several people had passed, but that was normal. Now that the hour grew late, most people had gone to bed for the night. She wished she could, even though she doubted she could sleep.
This had been a horrendous day. She never was good at being positive, and despite the fact that she tried her hardest to focus on having faith, she feared the worst. Alex had to have been taken against his will. He would have called her by now. Panic welled and anxiety seized her chest in a tightening grip.
What if …those words kept haunting her. She had no desire to spend the rest of her life locked in a man's body, but if she could bargain with God to bring Alex back, she'd promise to remain the same and never complain. She surprised herself. When did she start caring that much for him? The thought of never hearing his sarcastic jabs and silly excuses again saddened her. She refused to rest until she found him.
They hadn't come this far for it to end like this.
If something didn't happen during her twelve-hour watch, Cynthia wasn't sure what move to make next. She had no idea how the police handled investigations like this, except what Mike had mentioned. Surely because of the Baby Doll Murderer they would take every report seriously. Regardless, by the time her shift was over, so would twenty-four hours of waiting and worrying. She focused her attention back on the monitors, hoping beyond hope that something caught her eye and led to Alex.
***
Mike came by the next morning in the squad car to pick up the monitors and the rest of the equipment. Cynthia was sure the look on her face conveyed what a dismal waste of time the stake-out had been. "Thanks, for your effort, partner. I'm sorry it didn't help us one iota. I'm scared to death that Cynthia is the next victim of the killer. Please tell me I'm wrong."
Mike massaged his chin. "I'd like to say something positive, buddy, but if she's as responsible as you say, this doesn't look good." He patted Cynthia on the back. "You better go home and get some rest. I promise I'll keep looking. And I know the other fellas are, too, now that they know it's your girl." He picked up the last piece of equipment and nodded toward the door. "C'mon, I'll give you a ride across the street. I have to go pick up the alley camera."
She slid into the passenger seat and rested her head against the back. Exhaustion left her limp and defeated, but on the positive side, she might be able to sleep. Mike made a left turn and pulled around behind the building.
The dispatcher's voice announced a disturbance call in The Cairns. Mike responded that he and Alex were in the immediate vicinity and would contact the reporting person. They left the squad car in the alley and hurried around to the front entrance.
"Officers!" A hysterical woman greeted them. "Come quickly, there's a man lying on the floor inside." Concern etched her elderly face.
Cynthia didn't recognize the lady, but then she didn't know many other tenants. She had prayed the call would lead to Alex, but her hopes were dashed the moment the woman indicated her concern was for a man.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Cynthia, accompanied by Mike, followed the elderly woman inside and down the first-floor corridor. For a senior citizen, she moved quickly and led them to an apartment where the door stood open. Cynthia peered inside and saw a man sprawled face-down on the floor. "He isn't moving."
Mike hurried to the man's side while calling on his radio for medical assistance.
Cynthia turned to the woman. "Did you notice anyone around the apartment or anything suspicious?"
The elderly woman shook her head, her hands trembling and her eyes wide. "I was just on my way to check my mail when I saw him." She pointed to the victim. "He wasn't moving so I hurried back to my apartment and called 911."
Not wanting to involve the sweet, old grandmother any further, Cynthia touched her on the shoulder. "Thank you very much for calling us, Ma'am. We'll take it from here."
The woman smiled, "We? Are you a policeman, too?"
Realizing she wore Alex's regular clothing, Cynthia smiled. "Yes, Ma'am. I worked an undercover assignment today."
The woman displayed a toothless grin and turned to leave.
"Before you go, do you have any idea whose apartment this might be?" Cynthia inquired.
"No, can't say that I do. I've seen the man a time or two but I don't know his name. Strange man, he is."
"Well, thanks again. You take care now." She heaved a huge sigh, something she'd been doing frequently. Was it just her or were all the men in this building strange? If she wasn‘t so distraught, she might have laughed; she was a fine one to talk.
Cynthia's heart raced as she hurried back inside. How did Alex and Mike stand the stress of this job? One never knew what a call would entail, and she'd seen more than she ever wanted to; autopsy photos, victims of strangulation, and now this. The apartment was just as dark and dreary as the super’s, but not nearly as nasty. Old furniture, tattered draperies, and the stale and stagnant smell of smoke and mustiness reeked in the air. But who lived here?
Mike rolled the man over onto his back and Cynthia gasped. "It's the building super."
"That John Cratski, guy?"
"Yes. Is he alive?"
"He has a bad bump on his head, but his pulse feels strong," Mike assured.
Cynthia scanned the room. "This isn't his apartment. I wonder what he was doing in here. Surely not fixing something…he'd need tools for that."
The paramedics arrived with stretcher and first aid kit. Mike and Cynthia backed away to give them room. While EMT personnel tended to the victim, Mike turned to her. "Do you think this guy had anything to do with Cynthia's disappearance?"
"I don't know. This whole thing just keeps getting more confusing. I would've put my money on him, but now…I have to talk to him when he wakes."
When the medical staff had loaded the super onto the gurney and started for the door, Mike nudged her. "Once we get to the hospital, maybe you can get some answers."
All kinds of facts danced in her mind and two questions kept surfacing. Whose apartment were they in, and was Cratski there for a legitimate reason? Normally, he would be the resource to provide the tenant's name, but that wasn't likely to happen any time soon.
She had an idea. "Mike, would you mind if I stayed behind while you followed the ambulance? I have something I need to do here."
He raised his brow. "Is it legal?"
"I'm not sure. But if I don't tell you what it is, then you don't have to worry."
Mike nodded and followed the parade. Cynthia accompanied them as far as the lobby. Several doors opened as they passed, cracked only enough for curious eyes to peer out into the hallway. Could Alex be imprisoned behind one of them? Determined to find out, she waited until the ambulance and Mike drove away.
This was her chance. She wanted to get into Cratski's apartment for days and this was the perfect opportunity. But how? Alex was the one who knew how to open doors without keys. As she approached the super's apartment, she puzzled over her dilemma. What were the chances she'd find it unlocked?
She turned the knob. The key god smiled down on her. The door opened.
Inside, the curtains were pulled cl
osed and the interior masked in darkness. She quickly shut the door behind her and locked it. No use inviting trouble.
The placed smelled like a huge ashtray. Cynthia wrinkled her nose at the stench, crossed to the window and pushed the draperies aside. A yellow nicotine film stained the glass and created a strange reflection of sunlight on the walls. Feeling grimy, she wiped her hands together. How did people live in such filth? This guy made Alex's cleaning standards look good in comparison.
She surveyed the room. What exactly was she looking for? She had no idea, which made finding a starting place for her search twice as confusing. Maybe if she looked in every nook and cranny, some sort of clue would jump out at her.
Opening drawer after drawer, she rifled through the super's belongings. The kitchen turned up nothing at all, only cheap utensils and lots and lots of matchbooks.
She moved to the bedroom. Just as Alex had said, the super definitely had an interest in the kidnap-murder case. Newspapers, all pages turned to stories of the crime, littered the room. Of course, more matchbooks, dirty clothes, and used paper plates. Didn't the man own a trashcan?
On the nightstand lay a blueprint of some sort. Cynthia picked it up and scanned the confusing configuration. The yellow and aged paper made absolutely no sense. She put it back where she got it and moved to the bureau. She searched its contents, moving aside underwear and socks, looking under everything. There was definitely nothing that held a special meaning inside. Even a search under the bed proved fruitless; dust bunnies and a dirty sock. As a child, she'd always feared that monsters dwelled beneath her mattress, and if ever such a creature existed, this would be the perfect place to live. She stood, brushed off her knees.
"Ohhh," she groaned. "Why can't I find anything?" She slammed her fist into her open palm.
If the man was John Cratski, why wasn't there something there to prove his identity Something like a bill, a letter…anything! The walls were void of pictures, and she'd found no albums to tie him to family. Surely even this slob had relatives.
Culture Shock Page 19