Transgressions

by Ian Rankin (ed)

  Franklin acted like that sometimes, like Armand hadn't done a worth-while thing in five years, not since his wife and son died. But it wasn't true, he'd been a good cop. And evenings were hardest, alone at home. “Did you see the stiff's arm?” Franklin asked, after a painful minute, rolling fresh film into his camera.

  "What about it?"

  "No bracelet, no watch, no jewelry at all."

  Armand nodded. He'd noticed. The Charm Killer always left something around the wrist, so this was something new. A change in the M.O.?

  Armand looked more closely at the dead woman's arm. It wasn't right. It rested in a way that wasn't, well, natural. Armand couldn't explain it. He snapped on a pair of surgical gloves, then lifted the arm, which rose way too easily, and took a closer look. Yes, something wrong, something wrong. A long scratch on the wrist that never bled. He touched it gently with his gloved hand, ran his finger over it. It should have bled, but it hadn't. “No bracelet, no watch,” Armand said into the trunk, “but she had one. Someone ripped it off of her, post mortem.” He lowered her arm again, then looked around the edge of the car to where Franklin snapped one photo after another of the wheel wells, the windshield.

  When Downtown called his cell and told him that the car belonged to a woman last seen in Westport, he wasn't surprised. The Charm Killer sometimes hunted there, among the wine bars and coffee houses, the art theatre and sushi joints, the places where KC's young and free congregated beneath phony old-style lampposts or in dark, comfortable bars drinking imported beers and talking about the latest foreign films. Normally, he had no time for Westport, though years ago—before the car accident, before his wife and son died—a long, long time ago, he was one of them, young, outspoken and careless. Now he drank at home.

  * * * *

  The schoolboy, Lamar, turned the watch over and over in his hands. It felt heavier than he thought it should, and the second hand swept evenly and fluidly across the face. He frowned and put it to his ear, but he couldn't hear it ticking, just a low hum that said money, money, money. He didn't like it. It was a cursed thing, and he thought about throwing it in the wastebasket or down the incinerator chute outside his mom's apartment door, but he couldn't. It was too beautiful, too perfect, the most perfect thing he'd ever held.

  But what of the back of the watch, the engraving? for j.l., my little bird. tony boy. What did it mean? He closed his eyes, but when he did, he saw the lady's thin, white neck, her wrist, the green veins beneath the soft skin, the watch, how it glittered in the flashlight's glow. No, no, he thought. Stop it. And he put the watch carefully on the floor beside his bed and turned out the light.

  When he closed his eyes, he remembered the white face in the big car, the hand that waved—he'd seen that man before, hadn't he? Somewhere?—the car going past and past him, again and again. But when he dreamed, it was the watch he saw glowing, the dull hum the gears made, the second hand sweeping smoothly around and around. He dreamed about the sleeping lady's eyes, half shut, eyelids quivering like bird's wings, what they'd look like open, cold and blank.

  * * * *

  The Charm Killer liked gold, but he never kept it long. Armand knew that for sure. The killer liked gold and maybe he hung around the wine bars and bookshops in old Westport, found his marks there, charmed them—how did he do it?—got into their cars with them and drove through the night, downtown past Union Station, past the war memorial and the hulking Kemper Arena toward River Market, where he shot them once in the head and stuffed them in their own trunks. Sometime, maybe before he killed them, maybe after, he slipped something gold around their wrists, something he'd stolen from his previous victim. Always he stole from one victim to give to the next. That's why they called him the Charm Killer. That and he must be a pretty charming guy, Armand figured.

  So Armand knew exactly what he was looking for. An old gold watch—a 1967 Elgin, to be exact—with an engraving: for j.l, my little bird. tony boy. It belonged to the body they'd found last month—Jennifer Lagaurdia, the sixth victim—outside the old dry goods building.

  But what had the killer taken from this new body? What was Kitty Dufresne missing? Her boyfriend, a lawyer with Hallmark, suggested it might have been a gold bracelet from which hung fifteen or twenty little gold coins. “She got it,” he said, “in Morocco. The little coins, she loved them, the noise they made.” At the time, Armand nodded sympathetically. He knew he'd see it soon enough, on another victim's wrist.

  He and Franklin were driving up Broadway now, past the ragged ware-houses and the restored ones. Every month, another warehouse opened its doors to gentrification, another health food store, another coffee shop. “Damn yuppies,” he said. Franklin laughed. He wanted a drink.

  "You know,” Franklin had said earlier that day, “I bet you anything the kid who called in the 911 stole it."

  "From the scratch,” Armand had said, “I'd say he was in a hurry."

  They'd driven all day, checking leads, waiting for Downtown to call with something on the 911, where it had come from. And when Downtown did call, finally, Armand held the cell phone to his ear, driving one-handed. The 911, Downtown said, came in from the projects on 27th and Broadway, the pay phone outside the 2705 building, so Armand turned the unmarked cruiser around and parked on 26th.

  He'd listened to the 911 a few times already and thought he had a good sense of the voice—"a lady and she's not moving or nothing"—it sounded like a boy's, maybe twelve, thirteen. Black. Scared. He tried to remember it, until Franklin said, “We gonna be obvious out here, man. They can smell a cop,” and Armand said nothing in response, because of course it was true.

  "Hey,” Franklin said, “You hear? We just gonna go right in?"

  Armand smiled and kept walking.

  "Oh, hell,” Franklin said. “All this because the girl got a scratch on her wrist? Ten bucks says the kid doesn't give up the watch."

  They spent a couple hours going door to door through 2705 without any luck. An old lady told them there were several boys between ten and fifteen in the building. “They're good kids,” she said. “Most of them."

  In the courtyard across the street, a group of them leaned against a chain link fence and laughed. The wind blew in from downtown and they had their windbreakers wrapped around them tight. Franklin smiled. “We're looking to buy a watch,” he said. “Any of you boys know where we could buy a real nice gold watch?"

  The boys looked away or at their feet. One smiled toothily, hands in pockets. Trouble, Armand thought, but the boy just laughed, said, “Whatchoo want a watch for? Try J.C. Penney's, dog.” And the others laughed and kicked the dirt with their sneakers.

  The sun was going down. Franklin smiled. “Tried that,” he said. “They don't have what I want. I'm looking for something particular.” The boys were still laughing at the crack about Penney's. “I'm looking for something gold and square, got writing on the back. I'll pay fifty bucks better than pawn."

  The boys just laughed. “Damn,” the oldest said, “damn, Mr Money, fuck you."

  So Armand took out a handful of his cards, dropped them carelessly in the dirt. “If anyone knows where my friend can buy a watch like this,” he said. “Gimme a call. It's his birthday coming up. I want to get him something nice."

  And they walked away.

  * * * *

  Lamar lay on the torn yellow sofa, the watch humming on the cushion beside him. Funny, he thought, how it hums and doesn't tick. When he closed his eyes, he still saw the dead lady—he could say it now, the dead lady, the dead lady—he still saw her blank face, her wrists. He remembered unclasping the watch, how it caught in her flesh as he pulled it away. It was a beautiful watch, but cursed.

  He lay on the sofa and watched the muted TV, listened to the noises of the neighborhood, the honking horns, the kids still up and laughing in the courtyard. The watch just hummed. The television's blue light flickered over his face. He held Armand's card in his hand, turned it over and over. “Thug,” his friends told him, “sell that!
They ain't gonna do nothing. You didn't kill no one. You just found a watch. 5-0 don't care about you. Sell that!"

  He picked up the watch, weighed it in his hand, looked at the card, then rose from sofa and walked into the kitchen. There was no one home—his father long gone and away, his mother working—so he picked up the phone and dialed.

  * * * *

  "You did the right thing,” Armand said. Lamar sat in the seat beside him, where he'd feel important. Franklin was somewhere else, city hall, running down leads.

  "I didn't kill no girl,” Lamar said. “She was dead. I just took the watch."

  "It's fine,” Armand said. “It's fine.” He liked the boy. He was a thoughtful kid, smart. “I know you didn't kill anyone. What I want to know is, did you see anyone?"

  They were driving toward the precinct station and the boy seemed lost in thought. “Yeah,” he said at last. “I seen someone, but I didn't kill no one."

  "Who did you see?"

  "I dunno,” the boy said. He looked out the window, at the warehouses. “Just someone."

  "Near the body?” Armand asked. He tried to sound casual, nonchalant, but it didn't come off right.

  The boy was silent.

  "Near the body?"

  "Not near the body,” the boy said, at last. “In this car, see? This car pulls out of nowhere and we figured it was 5-0, but, you know. It slows and I seen inside."

  Armand waited for more.

  "And this white guy, he's waving at me, like hello.” Lamar laughed, but not nicely. “He's like, hello, kid, hello, friend."

  Armand nodded. “Would you recognize him if I showed you a few pictures?"

  The boy shrugged. Like, how should he know? And when he did that, Armand remembered his own son. Five years later, and he still missed him, his laugh, even his insolence. The last time he'd seen him, they'd argued and argued, he and his 10-year-old son, his wife, and then she'd driven him away, away up the snowy highway toward Maryville and he never saw them again.

  "You all right?” the boy said beside him. “You always quiet like that?"

  "I want you to try to remember that man's face,” Armand said.

  * * * *

  Lamar didn't know, he didn't know. He'd lain awake two nights remembering the car ease past, the cold, white face peering at him, the hand that waved. Did he have a moustache? Lamar thought so. Was his face narrow or wide? Narrow, it seemed, but maybe not. He knew well enough that when he recalled a thing, it changed. It changed with every recollection, mutated, became, always, another thing. A thing remembered enough never bore much resemblance to the thing itself, so Lamar had no faith in his own recollections. It was a white man, certainly, and he thought the man had a moustache, but beyond that? The bit of gold around his wrist—that was certainly a true memory, it was so odd. The man had worn a bracelet that shone when he waved.

  "Yeah,” he said as Armand turned the pages in the binder. Lamar examined face after face. “I don't know,” he said. “It was only a second."

  "Just relax, relax,” Armand said. “Relax and look at them and tell me if anything jumps out at you."

  Lamar turned a few more pages, but his eyes wouldn't focus. “I can't remember,” the boy said. He couldn't relax. He couldn't relax, he wanted to do things right, but he couldn't relax. He tried to conjure up the image of the man in the car, but all he could think of was the dead lady, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arm, the watch. He wished he hadn't taken it. He wished they hadn't gone anywhere near that car, near Kitty Dufresne's car. “I can't remember,” he said, and he was crying now. “Damn,” he said, “it was hectic, and I can't—"

  Armand closed the book. “It's all right,” he said. He patted the kid on the hand. “It's all right,” but the kid was crying now, long tears streaming down his face. “It's all right,” Armand said. “You did your best."

  But the kid wouldn't stop crying, and Armand walked him outside to the lobby where his mother was supposed to be waiting—they'd called her, she'd come in from work and had been in the lobby when the two of them had gone into the interview room to look at the books—but she wasn't there.

  "Where's his mom?” Armand asked Ginny, who was sitting behind the desk.

  "She left,” Ginny said.

  "She left?"

  "She left. Said you should give the kid a ride home. She had to get to work."

  Lamar sniffed beside him. “What the fuck?” Armand said. “She just left?"

  Ginny shrugged.

  Armand looked down at Lamar. The kid was big for his age—a little pudgy, a big navy blue windbreaker on—and still crying a little. “I guess I'm taking you home,” he said.

  So, they drove downtown. “Your mother just leave you places like that a lot?"

  "You know,” the kid said, “hectic life.” He wasn't crying anymore, had regained a little of his swagger.

  "Must be,” Armand said. “What does she do that's so important?"

  The kid shrugged.

  "You don't know?"

  "She works, you know, here and there. Down at Cloud 9. At Fantasies. Wherever."

  Armand nodded. He knew what that meant. “You see her much?"

  "Days,” Lamar said. “When I'm not in school."

  They pulled in front of 2705 Broadway. “Keep going,” Lamar said. “Drop me by Myron's Deli, up there on 23rd. I'll walk."

  Armand nodded. The kid didn't want his friends to see him, wanted to keep the $80 for the watch, maybe. He pulled a few blocks further, dropped the kid by the Deli, watched him disappear inside.

  * * * *

  It was hot there. A group of boys Lamar didn't know were playing pinball, jamming their hips against the machine, laughing. Damn, dog, damn! You gotta smack that fucker or he'll go right down the hole. Shut up, bitch.

  Lamar looked around. He only meant to disappear into the Deli and get his bearings, to check things out, then walk away casually, down the street like he'd just come from playing pinball, from buying a pack of cigs and was on his way home, But now he was hungry and he had a wad of cash—$80—the cop had given him for the watch, and the potato chips looked good. He picked out a bag of Lays Bar-B-Q, wandered over to the pinball machine where the older boys were, watched them a little bit. He'd never played, and the little silver ball fascinated him, bouncing back and forth, clanging and ringing off the paddles.

  After a few minutes, he made his way to the register, where a white guy took his money and smiled. Myron, he thought, but the guy was too young, maybe twenty-five or thirty, and he knew the Deli had been on this corner forever. New guy, probably. Lamar had seen him once or twice. When the guy smiled, he noted a gold front tooth. Slick, he thought. He wanted one like that.

  * * * *

  That night, he slept in his jeans and T-shirt. His pajamas were in the wash and his mother was out, wherever she went. So what? he thought, so what? He had a roll of cash and he'd sleep in whatever he wanted to.

  But when he closed his eyes, he kept seeing the woman's body, and the headlights, the car sliding past while the man inside waved at him, the bit of gold around his wrist. Lamar knew about the Charm Killer—he wasn't stupid—and he knew, now, what that gold might be. Another watch, a bracelet, something the killer stole. He'd figured it out at the police station. The watch Lamar had stolen belonged to some other dead lady.

  He tried to sleep. He tried and tried, his eyes squeezed shut. He counted his breaths, then tried to breathe slower. He counted the headlights that slid past his window, illuminating the cracked walls, the water-stained ceiling. No good, no good. He kept seeing the green veins in the wrist, the eyes, rolled back and blank, the car.

  He thought about his mother—where was she?—and his father, long gone. He thought about Armand, who was 5-0, but he liked him. Armand seemed sad and quiet and not like a cop at all. When Armand patted him on the head, it was like his own father might have, the way he imagined his own father would be. Lamar thought about that, and the wind whispered past the house, and the boys in t
he courtyard cried out and laughed in the night, and then he was asleep, he was asleep.

  And in his dream, the car pulled past again, and the white guy leaned forward and smiled, he waved and smiled, the car humming past—humming like the watch hummed, finely tuned, a nice car—the car hummed past and the man smiled. He smiled and his smile was like a gash, and, in his dream, Lamar looked at him and when the man waved, Lamar felt the watch in his pocket. Such a nice watch, so expensive and deadly. And the man waved and smiled and there was gold around his wrist. He smiled, and then Lamar saw it, a flash of gold in his smile, a wink of gold, a gold tooth. The man smiled and his front tooth was gold and, seeing that, Lamar woke up. He was sweating, The room was silent. It was almost morning.

  * * * *

  "How'd you get here?” Armand said. “Aren't you supposed to be in school?” But, secretly, Armand was glad to see the boy. He liked him.

  "The man,” Lamar said, “I think I seen him yesterday."

  "In the book?"

  Lamar shook his head. “In real life. I seen him at this Deli, see?"

  "You sure?"

  Lamar thought about that. Was he? “I don't know,” he said. “Sometimes I think about something a long time, and then it's like it's true. I don't know."

  "But you think—"

  "I think. I think I seen him. I think I seen his gold tooth when he passed that night, and then I seen it again."

  "What Deli?” Armand was putting on his raincoat. It was raining out and Lamar was dripping wet. He tossed the kid his only umbrella, then walked with him from his office past the front desk and the waiting room, down the hall and into the garage, where they got in the unmarked Chevy Impala.

  "This Deli,” Lamar was saying. “Myron's Deli. You know, where the high school kids hang out. I seen him there. He's been there for a couple weeks, because I seen him before I took the watch. I just didn't remember."

  "He's a high school kid?” Armand sounded doubtful.