“Did you talk to the barkeep last night?”
“Yeah, his story’s basically what he’s been sayin’ all along. From the mug shots they showed him, he thinks he saw the pimp early that evening. The place was packed. He poured the guy a Scotch, neat. The girl made quite an impression. Believe it or not, he actually seemed excited when he was talking about her. He said she was hot except for a ragged scar on her left cheek. Spoke broken English. He barely understood her. She had long dark hair, dark eyes, and was wearin’ a micro mini.”
“Can he recall what she said?”
“She asked for you by name. Do you have any idea who she is?”
“None, if I have a split personality, I guess it’s possible she would know me as that person. I’ve read that people with alternate personalities actually function like separate people.”
“We don’t even know if you have other personalities. All we know is you’ve had some blackouts. I see you almost every day, and you’re always you. Let’s stick with what we know for sure.”
“The description doesn’t ring a bell with me. Did he see them together, the woman and Brown?”
“He’s sure they were together, at least once, near the front door. Of course, you know the bar. It’s a long way across. If it was as crowded as he says, I don’t know how he could have seen much. Supposedly, there was a lot of arm waving like an intense argument. Then the crowd surrounded them and blocked his view. He saw her once more, right before closing. She came in and went straight to the bathroom. Somethin’ else odd, when she came back, she was wearin’ jeans.”
“Did he see the pimp after the fight?”
“Nope, that was the last time. He didn’t even see him leave.”
“What’d he say about me? Did I act normal? He’s seen me in there plenty.”
“He said you were outta-your-mind drunk. He offered to call you a cab, but you blew him off. When he told you there was a good lookin’ woman askin’ about you, you made a rude remark and walked away.”
“What’d I say?”
“It doesn’t matter. You were drunk.”
“I want to understand my mental state. Word for word, what did I say?”
“You said something like: ‘Cool, maybe I’ll just fuck the bitch.’” Deacon’s stomach was trying to eat itself; his skin burned. “Doc, why do you bother?” he shouted. “I’m hopeless, not worth savin’. I’m not worth your spit!”
“Calm down. Come on, if off color remarks were a felony, most of the population would be in jail. You can’t handle the booze, that’s all. Let’s get back to business, and no names.”
“Sorry, it’s just that—sometimes I can’t believe the things I’ve said and done. Maybe I really do need professional help.”
“I’m not a judge of anything, buddy, but I believe in you. Because of that, because of who I know you really are, I’m certain you didn’t do this. One other thing, do you know anything about a black van?”
“A black Ford van, maybe, why?”
“The bartender told me that every night you were in there, including the night of the murder, he saw an old black van in the lot. He noticed it because it stuck out like a sore thumb. How’d you know it was a Ford?”
“Because, I remember it, I even told Ka… your wife, about it. Hell, I don’t know anyone who owns a van.”
“I’m sure it’s nothin’, maybe a vagrant livin’ in his van.
“I haven’t been to the last vic’s apartment yet. I intend to go today. Are you ready to hit the road?”
“I found the address of the church’s district office in the phone book, and I’m ready to ride.”
A computerized voice broke in: “Deposit seventy-five cents for three minutes.”
“I’m outta change,” Doc said hurriedly. “I’ll call you in the morning, same time, same place.”
“Right, ‘til then, good luck,” the connection dropped. Deacon Jones was suddenly and sadly alone.
The plump secretary was pleasant enough although she seemed impatient. The district office of the Methodist Church was quiet. Deacon was the only visitor. He checked his watch. It was five minutes before twelve and probably her lunchtime. He lied nervously telling her he was Reverend John Jones’s nephew from California.
She lumbered over to a metal file cabinet. Within a minute, she returned with a thick, tattered file. She opened the folder, looked up, and smiled. “Isn’t this a coincidence,” she said politely. “You just came from California, and your uncle lives in California, Missouri.”
“Yeah, a coincidence,” Deacon breathed a sigh of relief. He heard Tina’s voice the day she broke up with him. Don’t ask a question you can’t stand the answer to. With a fearful voice, he timidly asked. “What about my aunt, my Aunt Grace?”
The woman answered without looking up. “This lists them both at the address.” She tore a page from her note pad, surreptitiously glanced at her watch, and quickly copied the address.
Deacon left the office with the neatly folded paper and mixed emotions.
State Highway 50 wound through the Missouri countryside. Vibrant fall foliage created a colorful collage in bright red, orange, and yellow against a vivid blue sky. After two hours on the road, Deacon easily found the aging white clapboard parsonage. He stashed the Low Rider, just off the county road, a quarter of a mile away. Two hundred meters from the weathered house, he hid behind a sprawling oak tree. A lone, faded green Chevrolet Impala sat in the driveway. The last time he had seen the car, it was nearly new.
The house was still. While he waited, Deacon methodically studied every detail of the property. Beyond the house, he glimpsed an out-of-place shape. He pushed his sunglasses down his nose and strained to see. A burning pain shot through his body. The rough bark of the tree scraped his back as he sank to the ground. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. He was not mistaken. It was a black Ford van.
Sixty minutes passed; still no movement in the house. The first eighteen years of Deacon’s life wormed their way through his memory. He tried desperately to seize upon the good times, but failed. For every good recollection, there was something bad attached, trumpeted by a visit to his father’s study. He battled to imagine his father smiling or laughing. Instead, he saw him towering overhead, arms crossed, glaring.
The front door opened. Deacon was shocked back to awareness from the distasteful regurgitation. He held his breath. Two relics appeared on the porch.
The old man, hunched over, limped stiffly. A black, threadbare suit hung loosely over his emaciated frame. A short, narrow tie lay haphazardly against a wrinkled white shirt. The jacket of his Sunday best pulled open as he walked. He wore baggy pants, braced by clip-on suspenders, plus a belt. A rumpled, familiar, black fedora perched in stark contrast upon long, thin wisps of snow-white hair.
“Jesus.” Deacon whispered.
Mrs. Jones kept stride one-step behind her husband. Her brown, belted shirtwaist dress buttoned snugly around her neck. A vinyl purse swung from her right arm. Bluish-white, meticulously braided hair wound tightly in a familiar bun. Deep wrinkles marred her face.
Deacon Jones found his parents wearing strangers’ faces, a couple who had never known happiness. They called him James David, referred to each other in formal terms, and spoke of themselves in third person.
Out of character, Mrs. Jones walked to the driver’s door. The Reverend traced the passenger side of the car with his hands until he reached the door.
“I’ll be damned. The old man is blind.” A gust of wind swallowed Deacon’s words. The sprawling oak’s sparse leaves rustled. Unexpectedly, he wanted to be at his father’s side. A powerful urge tempted him to rush over, take the old man’s hand, and help, again to be a part of their life, to be their son, and to seek their comfort.
He lifted himself from the dry grass and started toward the car. An apathetic force stopped him in his tracts. Pride, shame, or maybe even fear, whatever it was, it paralyzed him.
*****
Yellow POLICE LINE D
O NOT CROSS tape stretched in an X across the apartment’s doorway. Doc wormed into lightweight, leather riding gloves. He glanced down the empty hall, slit the door seal, and tried the knob. The door was unlocked. Someone was a little careless he chuckled as he entered.
Cynthia Ann Thomas was a secretary at the nearby brewery. A well-worn sofa and mismatched chair greeted Doc as he entered the dingy living room. A small round table, surrounded by battered wooden chairs sat in the edge of the combination kitchen and dining area.
A kitchen counter protruded a short distance into the room, a separation between cooking and eating. On the counter top, Doc found something he had only seen in movies. Masking tape formed a crude circle on the Formica surface.
A repugnant must permeated the rooms. Family photographs, in quality frames, dotted predominately-bare walls. Doc turned a hand-rubbed walnut frame in his hands. “A gift from Mom and Dad, no doubt,” he said to the older couple in the photo.
A mirrored dresser constructed of a plastic-coated laminate was the most prominent piece of furniture in the bleak bedroom. The front corner of the top surface nearest the doorway was broken and missing.
Tape, in the uneven shape of a body, marked the bare mattress much like the taped circle on the kitchen counter. A dark bloodstain splayed out, well beyond the adhesive boundary, in a macabre shape.
The dresser consisted of two stacks of four drawers each, which Doc systematically searched. The top left contained socks and stockings. Next down was underwear. Most of the shabby bikini panties were cotton. Beneath the panties, Doc found a ribbon-tied bundle of greeting cards. The contents of two more drawers down on the left and the top three on the right were nondescript.
Carefully organized with rows of silk undergarments, the last drawer on the bottom right was different from the rest. In the corner, were four large red scarves neatly bundled and identically tied with a single knot near one end and a four-inch diameter self-loop in the other. Doc held a scarf at arm’s length. The sturdy silk cord spanned thirty-six inches. He surveyed the fabric. Beyond his reflection in the wide mirror, four bedposts stood four-feet above the soiled mattress. He slipped one of the loops over a turned finial; it fit perfectly. “I’ll be damned,” he whispered. “Our secretary did like kinky sex.”
Near the back of the drawer, and completely out of context, he found a plastic bag of individually wrapped chocolates. He lifted the bag; what was beneath captivated his attention. Doc had seen dildos before, but nothing so big, or lifelike. It was thick, flesh-color, and approximately eighteen inches long with the head of a penis on each end. The soft, flexible latex material was like real skin. I’m glad I’m wearin’ gloves. He hastily dropped the toy in the drawer.
His hand brushed a mostly hidden velvet box. Inside was a yellow-gold tennis bracelet set with dozens of brilliant cut diamonds. Tucked in the lid was a neatly folded card with an elegant inscription inside: Precious kitten, I hope you will cherish these stones as much as I cherish your love. Their brilliance are overshadowed only by your own. All my love, B.
Doc listened at the door until he was sure there was no one in the hallway. He slipped out and walked casually down the hall. He stopped at the next apartment and knocked.
A single feminine eye peered through the narrow opening between the door and its jamb. “Can I help you?” The security chain stretched tight. She appeared frightened.
“Hi, I hope so. My name is Al Stephens,” he made up the story as he went. “I work over at the brewery with Cindy Thomas.”
“Then, you know she’s dead,” the young woman replied flatly, and began to close the door.
“Wait, please, I need your help.”
She stopped. “Sorry, I can’t help you. I hardly knew Cindy.”
“The thing is I feel like a heel askin’. I loaned her my CD collection. Now, I don’t know how to get ‘em back.”
“Call the cops.” The woman said curtly.
“I’m afraid I’ll never get them back if the cops get involved. I just thought, maybe, you might know some of her family or friends, someone who could help me without a big fuss. I’m a forktruck driver in the warehouse. Those CDs were a big investment,” Doc said dramatically. “I thought when I loaned them to her, it’d be a way to get to know her. I wanted to ask her out. She was so pretty.”
“I hate to break the news to you, friend, but I don’t think she had family around here. Least ways I ain’t seen nobody who looked like a mom or dad go through her door. As far as her goin’ out with ya, I’m afraid you aren’t a very good judge of people.”
“I don’t understand.”“I ain’t sayin’ anything about what kind of a person she was. I’m tryin’ to tell ya she played for the other team.”
“What?”
“She was a dike, you know, a lesbian.”
“Wow, I had no idea,” Doc did not have to act surprised. “Did she have a girlfriend? Did you know any of the people who visited her? Someone might have a key and be able to help me.”
The tension in the chain relaxed. “My neighbor must have been quite the lover.” The eye in the crack sparkled at the sound of its own voice. “She moved in ’bout a year ago; there’s been a steady stream of gals in and out of there ever since.”
“There was no one special? Someone you would have seen often?”
“Now that you mention it, there was. I’ve seen the same blonde every couple of days for the past, I’m not sure, maybe six or eight weeks.”
“Did you ever speak to her or hear Cindy call her by name?”
“Did I ever!” Her voice raised a decibel, the half-face twisted into a frown, and the eye squinted. “I saw ‘em kissin’ in the hall. The blonde, a real looker by the way, called Cindy, ‘Cat.’”
“What did Cindy call the woman?”
“Bridget, I’m pretty sure.”
“What’d Bridget drive?”
“That’s easy. She nearly backed into me once. Her car, now that was the odd thing,” she added in an uncertain tone.
“Odd like how?”
“I don’t know much about cars, but that gal was drivin’ a brand new Benz, dark blue. Why would a good lookin’ broad with that kind of money be hangin’ with a secretary? I guess it takes all kinds.”
“Besides good lookin’, what did she look like? Can you describe her?”
“Yeah, sure, I bumped into her a couple of times out front before I knew she was seein’ Cindy. She was a lot taller’n me, probably close to 5’7”. Her blonde hair hung down past her shoulders. She had big blue eyes, a tan I would kill for, and great boobs, prob’ly Ds.”
Doc held his breath. Stunned by the familiar description, he stared at the eye.
“Mister, that all you need?” the woman asked impatiently.
“Her voice, what kind of voice did she have?”
“Very distinct, raspy, really sexy. No wonder Cindy was…”
Doc spun around, and started down the stairs.
“You want me to give that woman your number if she happens to come back?” the eye called after him.
“No thanks,” Doc called over his shoulder without looking, “I’ll be back.”
*****
Unhurriedly, Grace Jones drove toward town.
Deacon gave her a safe head start, and then followed. He cast a final glance toward the house as he passed. The study’s probably in the front corner. He thought as he opened the throttle to escape the memory.
The sign on the building read CALIFORNIA CARE, Personalized Care for the Aged. The Joneses took nearly five minutes to cross the tarmac and enter through the front door.
A few blocks down on a side street, Deacon hid the Harley between two cars. He strolled to the corner, and then followed the main street to the front of the red brick structure. He paused, shifted his weight nervously, and strained to see through the plate-glass windows. Reflective glare from the mid-afternoon sun blocked his view.
It was impossible to cross the lawn discretely, and the sidewalk did not pass dire
ctly in front of the windows. The only option was to enter blindly and hope that the Joneses were not standing inside the door. Nonchalantly, he entered the foyer and pretended to read flyers posted on a bulletin board.
A small opaque glass panel made a metal on metal sound as it slid open. A pear-shaped face appeared. “May I help you?” The nurse asked with an indifferent tone.
Deacon froze. “Hi, I’m waitin’ for my sister,” he answered apprehensively. “We would like to see your facility. I can’t imagine what’s happened. She’s already late and that’s very unlike her.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I don’t know, not unless my sister made one. Do we need an appointment? All we want is a general tour.”
“We always try to schedule our visitors so we don’t disrupt the residents.”
“Gosh, I’m sorry. We can come back.” Deacon grasped for an excuse to stay in the lobby for a few more minutes. “Do you mind if I wait here ‘til she arrives?”
“Tell you what. We aren’t too busy today. If your sister gets here in the next fifteen minutes, even if she didn’t make an appointment, I’ll be happy to show you around.”
“That’s very kind, thanks. Can I wait right here?”
“Wait in the atrium if you like. There’s a sitting area close to the door. You’ll be more comfortable.”
“Great, thanks.” Deacon tried to act pleased. I hope I’m not walking into somethin’, he thought. His stomach gnawed. The door buzzed.
Silk plants, sprinkled amid various arrangements of sofas and chairs, lined the walls of the common area. Residents sat in smalls groups on furniture and in wheelchairs scattered throughout the room. Carelessly strewn about, walkers and canes looked like modern welded sculptures.
On the far side of the spacious, well-lit room, a glass wall separated the atrium from an open-air patio surrounded by the building. French doors, propped open, welcomed a pleasant fall breeze to breathe life into an otherwise clinical atmosphere.
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