Don’t Look Now

by Richard Montanari

  ‘Seriously?’ Rita said, giving him the twice-over. ‘It’s the jacket. Definitely, the jacket.’

  Paris had stopped at his apartment and thrown on a suit jacket over his polo shirt. He thought it made him look pretty hip – casual and elegant at the same time. He was about to hear differently. He was glad Tommy wasn’t with him. He’d never have heard the end of this.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, only a cop would think a suit jacket is the same thing as a blazer,’ she said. ‘They’re not interchangeable, you know. Suit jackets go with a specific pair of pants. For life. One pair of pants per jacket. That’s it.’ She lifted Paris’s beer, wiped the bar beneath it, then set it down on a fresh cocktail napkin. ‘Now a blazer,’ she continued, ‘a blazer goes with jeans, slacks, corduroys. Blazers are a lot more practical because you can wear them with anything. Blazers are the way to go. Especially for divorced men.’ She winked at him and placed a small bowl of goldfish crackers on the bar.

  ‘You could tell that, too?’

  ‘Hey, what the hell do you think I do here all night?’ She got a call from the other end of the bar. ‘I watch people,’ she said, walking away backward. ‘I know people. I could be a cop.’

  Maybe you could, Paris thought.

  The hotel bar was starting to fill up, mostly with what looked like graduate students trying to get in that one last cruise before heading back to school after their Easter break. The men still outnumbered the women – at least that much had not changed since Paris had gone wolfing the first time around, nearly twenty years earlier – but he noticed that the young women were a lot more aggressive than he recalled. That was certainly different.

  Yet it was the young Elizabeth Shefler that had asked him to slow-dance that sweltering July night so many years ago. ‘Reunited’ by Peaches and Herb, already a golden oldie by then. Paris still played the forty-five, in all its scratchy splendor, whenever the Windsor Canadian was on all-night duty.

  He looked at his waitress, leaning over the opposite side of the bar, her perfect derrière high in the air, and was just about to concede that he had bunions older than Rita the Barmaid when the voice came over his left shoulder.

  ‘Officer Paris?’

  Paris turned on his bar-stool. The woman was in her mid-twenties, strawberry blond, medium build, very pretty. He decided not to correct her on his title again. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Ms Burchfield?’

  She extended her hand. ‘Call me Ellie.’

  ‘Sure,’ Paris said. ‘Jack Paris.’

  ‘Sorry I’m late. Easter and all.’

  ‘Not a problem. Can I get you something?’

  ‘No thanks. I appreciate you meeting me here. Not making me come downtown.’

  Paris noticed a slight waver in the young woman’s voice. She was scared. He let her continue when she was ready.

  ‘This is where I met him,’ she said. ‘I figured that if you and I met here I might stay angry enough to actually go through with this.’

  Paris had heard it before. The scene keeps you mean. ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘If you’re not pressing any charges, there was no real reason to come down to the Justice Center.’ He hoped his point was getting across, but there was no evidence of that happening yet.

  Paris showed Eleanor Burchfield the police sketch, but because most of the man’s face was obscured, she could not say for sure if it was the same man. They fell silent for a few moments. Eleanor Burchfield took a deep breath, and told Paris how she came to meet the man who called himself Pharaoh.

  ‘Do you know how he spells that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No business card or anything?’

  ‘No. I just assumed it was “Farrow” as in Mia Farrow. He never gave me a first name. That might have actually been his first name. He said it as if he had just the one name. Like Cher or Madonna or something.’

  Paris wrote ‘Farrow’ in his book and made a note to check alternative spellings.

  Eleanor Burchfield went on to describe her life in brief sketches. She was twenty-five, a speech pathologist at Lake West, unmarried, not really the nightclub type. But when she did go out, she rarely went alone. The night in question had been an exception. She told Paris that she had seen the man from across the room and had been immediately taken with him – his looks, his confidence, his impeccable tailoring. Paris decided to wait until she was finished to get the full and detailed facial description of the man.

  She described their slow-dance, how the man had seduced her, talking her into going to the Solon Motel with him. Every so often, as she trod lightly over the embarrassing parts, she would look skyward, perhaps for some sort of divine explanation as to why she did what she did.

  As if sheer loneliness wasn’t good enough, Paris thought. He’d been there many times.

  ‘Could you ID this man if you saw him again?’ Paris asked. He knew it was a rhetorical question, having heard how intimate the two had become, but he learned a long time ago to just ask the rhetorical questions and get them over with.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Ellie said. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever forget this guy.’

  ‘What makes you think he had anything to do with these murders? Did he strike you, threaten you?’

  ‘Not really. I mean, he was charming as hell in the beginning. Actually, right up until I saw the handcuffs. But there was just something about him. Something dangerous. Maybe that was part of the attraction for me. Most of the men I know are, I don’t know, boring, I guess.’ She looked at the floor, perhaps unwilling to meet Paris’s eyes. He knew that this meant something revelatory was forthcoming. He remained absolutely still. ‘So when he tried to handcuff me to the bed, I wasn’t so much surprised as I was frightened. I just got the hell out of there.’ She sat down on a bar-stool as if a great weight had been lifted. ‘I feel so stupid.’

  ‘Look,’ Paris said, trying not to sound judgmental, ‘we’re all allowed a few mistakes in life, aren’t we? This guy, how were you supposed to know?’ He finished his beer and pushed the empty glass across the bar. ‘And on the stupid scale, believe me, you’re not even close to the top ten. Stupid is my business’

  Eleanor Burchfield smiled. It lit up her face immeasurably.

  ‘Would you like to get a booth?’ Paris asked.

  ‘Okay. But I’m going to out to my car and get a cigarette. I know, I know. It’s a filthy habit. Please, no lectures.’

  ‘No lectures,’ Paris said. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you something?’

  ‘I’m good.’

  ‘Sure?’

  Eleanor Burchfield thought about it. ‘Okay. Diet Coke’s fine. Be right back.’

  Paris signalled Rita and watched the woman walk out into the hotel lobby. He could see how what happened to her got started. Eleanor Burchfield was a very attractive woman, very stylish in a Town & Country way.

  He had discreetly looked her over for tattoos, but he hadn’t seen any. He would ask.

  ‘Another one?’ Rita asked.

  ‘Coffee for me. Black, one sugar,’ Paris said. ‘And a Diet Coke.’

  Rita grabbed a cup, poured the coffee, smiled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Rita,’ Paris said, sounding far more paternal than he would have liked. ‘With all we’ve been through together.’

  Rita laughed. ‘It’s just that she wasn’t drinking Diet Coke last night. But that’s none of my business, right?’

  ‘You saw her last night?’

  Rita put the mug of coffee in front of him, grabbed the nozzle for the Coke. ‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘She was with this fucking dreamboat.’ She looked up quickly, a little embarrassed. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’ve heard the word once or twice,’ Paris said. He retrieved the police sketch from the adjacent bar-stool. ‘Could this be the guy?’

  ‘This could be anybody. This could be a million different guys.’

  Paris said nothing.

  ‘Anyway, I noticed the guy right away, ev
en though he was hanging around the corner over there,’ she said, motioning to a dark corner of the bar, across from the entrance. ‘Tall, dark suit, wavy hair. Like a movie star.’

  Paris took out his notebook. ‘What color hair?’

  ‘Brown, I think. Like your. Maybe darker. There’s not a lot of light in here, you know.’

  ‘Of course,’ Paris said. ‘What’s your full name?’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Can you spell that for me please?’ Oldest cop joke on record.

  ‘Am I allowed to ask what this is about or no?’

  ‘Just routine,’ Paris said. But he already knew Rita well enough to know that that wouldn’t be the end of it.

  ‘Routine about, like, what?’ She made small circular motions with her hands, punctuating each word.

  Paris told her. She straightened up immediately, as was befitting the gravity of the circumstance, and did her civic duty. She told him all that she remembered. Rita – full name, Rita Constance Weisinger – told him, no, she had not seen this man before and, yes, believe her, she would have remembered. She also said she thought he was drinking Absolut on the rocks but couldn’t be sure. She didn’t wait on him. She went on to say that he was in for about an hour, danced slow once or twice with Eleanor Burchfield, then left. And no, she hadn’t seen them leave.

  ‘Would you be willing to talk to a police artist?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘You know, I’m starting to regret buying you that beer.’

  Paris smiled and put his notebook in his pocket. ‘Yeah, but think of how you’ll swell with civic pride when we catch this maniac.’

  Rita rolled her eyes.

  ‘I’ll talk to you when I’m done with this interview,’ Paris said. He looked at his watch. The Burchfield woman had been gone ten minutes. He grabbed the drinks and pointed toward one of the booths. ‘We’ll be over here if you remember anything else.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Rita said, wiping down the bar, finding nothing surprising at all about the fact that the gorgeous ones were always the ones who turned out to be crazy.

  Eleanor Burchfield had no matches or a lighter in the car. There was probably nowhere to smoke in the hotel anyway, but someone might have a light. She walked back into the hotel, crossed the lobby, headed for the small gift shop. No luck. When she turned to leave the tiny alcove, she ran straight into a woman carrying a plastic glass full of Cabernet Sauvignon. The deep burgundy liquid seemed to hover between them for a moment – apparently deciding who had the more expensive outfit – then proceeded to splash on Ellie’s chest.

  Let’s see, Ellie thought in that instant, insult plus injury equals, exactly 325 dollars for the cardigan she would soon contribute to the landfill.

  ‘Oh my God!’ the woman said, covering her mouth in shock. ‘I am so sorry.’

  The woman was fiftyish, on the tall side, mousy, dressed in a rather ordinary cotton-print smock, carrying an overcoat and overnight bag in her other hand, the hand not engaged in spilling wine on Ellie Burchfield. She wore thick glasses, cheap perfume, and had a beauty mark on her cheek.

  ‘Oh, it’s all right,’ Ellie said, meaning exactly the opposite.

  ‘I am so clumsy.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘You know what,’ the woman said, snapping her fingers. ‘I have a bottle of club soda in my room. I’m just around the corner in one-eighteen.’

  Ellie looked at her sweater. ‘Well, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘Nah. Not at all. Least I can do. Name’s Earline Pender.’ She stuck out her hand.

  Ellie introduced herself.

  They rounded the corner and the woman pushed open the door, which was slightly ajar already. She called out.

  ‘Ben?’

  No answer.

  ‘Women on the poop deck, Ben,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘Stow your anchor.’

  Ben Pender? Ellie thought. What a curse of a name.

  ‘Oh well. In the bar’m sure.’ She tossed her bag on the bed. ‘Club soda’s on the table, bathroom’s over there,’ she added, heading back out the door. ‘Be right back. Was going for a couple of candy bars myself. Can’t get enough of those damn Twix.’

  She left the room.

  Ellie grabbed the one-liter bottle of club soda, crossed the room to the bathroom, spread the sweater out on the vanity top, poured the carbonated water over the deep red stain.

  She decided that she would go back out to the bar and apologize to Detective Paris for wasting his time. Then, of course, she realized that he’d never let her go without asking her a million other questions about Mr Handcuffs, so she decided to just leave.

  Because the man from last night simply was not the killer he was looking for. Couldn’t have been. He was just some dance-hall Romeo, a little kinky maybe, but just a gigolo nonetheless. Why would a guy like that have to kill women? He was beautiful. So he liked to tie girls up when he had sex. Big deal. We all have our deviant little ways, don’t we?

  Sure we do.

  * * *

  Although it was probably against the rules, Ellie found matches in the room, lit a Winston Light. The red wine stain on her sweater was permanent, and that seemed to be that. She had already given up on the notion of having a beige cardigan in her wardrobe so, unless the clumsy Mrs Earline Pender was really filthy rich and intended to flip her a trio of hundred-dollar bills for her trouble, the cardigan was heading for the Dumpster.

  Without the ivory buttons, though, Ellie thought. No need to make it a total loss.

  She drew on the cigarette once, then tossed it into the commode. As she flushed the toilet she thought she heard the door to the hotel room click shut.

  Or did she?

  ‘Mrs Pender?’ Ellie looked out into the darkened bedroom, her eyes momentarily confronted by the sudden change of light. ‘I don’t think I’m going to get this stain out after all.’

  Silence.

  ‘Mr Pender?’ Ellie tried again, but decided she was mistaken. The noise must have come from the hallway. She felt along the wall for a light switch.

  Then came a glimmer from near the bed, just a few feet away. A brief sword of incandescence in the black room.

  Ellie stepped forward. ‘Earline?’

  A hand shot out of the darkness. It closed quickly around Ellie’s mouth, then slammed her head against the steel doorjamb, stunning her, her mind showing her stars. Ellie began to struggle but there was another hand immediately at her chest. The fingers were powerful, ironlike.

  The petroleum smell of the latex glove filled her nostrils and Ellie saw in an instant that the reflection she had seen danced off the blade of a straight razor – long, highly polished, pearl-handled. Muscular arms dragged her back into the brightness of the bathroom and tossed her against the wall, pummeling the air from her lungs.

  The woman who called herself Earline Pender held Ellie tightly against the cool blue tile. Her breath was hot and sweet with cinnamon mouthwash.

  Ellie glanced down and saw that the woman had changed her shoes. She now wore white stiletto heels. Through the opening in her coat, Ellie also saw that the woman was nude.

  ‘I know who you’re talking to out there,’ the woman said. She lifted a finger from Ellie’s mouth, daring her to make a sound.

  Ellie remained silent.

  The woman increased the pressure, the razor now lying up against the fleshy well at the base of Ellie’s throat.

  ‘Don’t fuck with me, kitty-cat,’ the woman said. She tapped the razor once with her forefinger, drawing a trickle of blood. ‘I know who he is. He’s a cop.’

  Ellie could see that the woman was younger than she had originally thought. The lines on her face seemed to have been drawn in, the gray streaks in her hair sprayed on. The beauty mark was real. ‘Yes.’

  The woman looked at the floor for a moment, thinking. She brought herself to within an inch or two of Ellie’s face. ‘Where does he think you are right now?’

  ‘Having a cigarette.’r />
  ‘And what were you going to tell him when you got back?’

  Eleanor Burchfield said nothing.

  ‘Were you going to tell him all about last night?’

  The tears began to flow freely now.

  ‘Were you going to tell him about how you’re a fucking whore?’ The woman ran her hand around the back of Ellie’s neck, grabbing a fistful of hair, pulling her down to her knees. The woman threw her leg over Ellie’s head and sat down on the toilet behind her in one perfect, fluid motion.

  ‘I saw you, you know,’ the woman said. ‘I saw what you did with him.’ She extended her legs and gathered Ellie closer to her, locking her ankles around Ellie’s chest. ‘Just tell me that you realize you made a mistake, and I won’t hurt you.’ The woman eased the pressure on the razor. ‘Tell me you’re sorry.’

  ‘I—’ Ellie began, fully prepared to say anything that this woman wanted. But the woman interrupted.

  ‘Because, you know what we do to scheming little cunts?’ She brought the razor to rest at a ninety-degree angle to Ellie’s throat and reached into her overnight bag. She pulled out a digital camera, turned the screen to face them, began flipping through the pictures. She stopped at a medium shot of the man Ellie had gone to the Solon Motel with. He was standing in the very same motel room, near the foot of the bed. Even considering the horror of her situation, Ellie was still taken with the man’s physical beauty: the marble hardness of his chest and abdomen, the aristocratic line of his jaw.

  He was naked and fully erect.

  ‘Look familiar?’ the woman asked. Playful now. Girlfriends. She flipped to another picture of the man, this one a side view. ‘Rather impressive, isn’t it?’

  The woman then flipped through three more photographs. The first picture was a close-up of a woman with a thin red scarf draped loosely around her shoulders. The woman was nude from the waist up and was lying across a bed, staring vacantly at the ceiling. ‘How about these?’ the woman asked. ‘You recognize these gals, don’t you? Sure you do. You read the papers.’

  The picture of Maryann Milius that Ellie had seen in the Plain Dealer had been cropped from what might have been an Olan Mills type portrait. Ellie had thought the young woman pretty at the time.