“What about the dogs? And the cats?”
“We’ll arrange somethin’.”
“You know Felicity won’t go for this, Ben.” I shook my head. “Like you said, she didn’t last time. She won’t this time either.”
“Yeah, well last time ya’ almost got killed, so I’m not givin’ ya’ a choice.”
“You can’t do that,” I returned.
“Ever hear of protective custody, Kemosabe?”
“You wouldn’t…”
“Fuckin’ try me.”
* * * * *
“How’s it going?” I was fighting to keep the mix of depression, anger, and fear out of my voice as I spoke into the telephone. “Everyone having fun as usual?”
It was early afternoon, but the “Santa Brigade” was booked right up until 5:30 p.m. this year. I had managed to remember enough of the schedule to catch my wife on her cell phone in between stops, since I had missed their lunch break. I could hear the upbeat chattering of the rest of the group in the background when she answered.
“Great,” Felicity’s voice came back to me over the handset. Her brogue was returning, and I could hear how tired she was. But at the same time it was obvious that she was still running on excitement and a healthy dose of adrenalin. “Just to let you know, I’ve had three marriage proposals so far—one of them from a twelve-year-old, mind you, so you’d best watch out, then. Younger men do still find me attractive.” She punctuated the comment with a giddy laugh.
“I’m not surprised. But I’ve told you that before.”
“I still like hearing it, then. Of course, I still attract the older men it seems. About thirty minutes ago we were at a nursing home and an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair grabbed my arse. Not just once, but three times. Kept wanting me to sit on his lap.”
“Did you?”
“Only for a quick picture, and that would be when he grabbed it the third time.”
“And you’re still calling him a gentleman?” I chuckled, the visual helping me to forget my worries, if only for a moment. “So you didn’t hurt him too much, did you?”
“He was harmless, really,” she laughed. “Besides, it was probably the biggest thrill he’s had all year. And I just have to look at it that I’m spreading the Christmas cheer, then.”
“Beats a nut log, I guess.”
“Aye, he said something like that too, but I’m thinking he meant it with a much different connotation.”
“So what you are really saying is ‘elderly gentleman’ is short for ‘dirty old man’?”
“Filthy would be more like it,” she giggled.
“Well, considering the way you looked when you left this morning, I guess I can’t blame him. Sexiest Missus Santa-elf-helper-whatever I’ve ever seen.”
“So you liked the outfit, then?” her voice held an undertone of satisfaction.
“What do you think?”
“Hmmmmm,” her voice lowered to a purr. “Maybe I’ll leave it on when I get home, then… For a little while anyway if you know what I mean.”
If we’d had this conversation a few hours earlier, I would probably be looking for a place to hide, so I wouldn’t embarrass myself. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately as the case may be—the recent revelation from Ben was severely dampening my heretofore-overactive libido.
“You might want to hold on to that thought, Lass,” I told her. “Allison and Ben have invited us over to their house for dinner.”
“That’s nice,” she said. “What did you tell them?”
“I said I’d have to ask you.”
“You know,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “you didn’t see what I put on underneath this costume.”
She wasn’t making this easy, even with the preoccupation that was permeating my brain. I had briefly considered telling her the whole story but then decided against it. There was no reason for both of us to worry over this. Not at this particular moment anyway. People were depending on her and I needed to let that come first, for now.
I just kept telling myself that Ben was correct. As long as she was with her group and out in the public eye, she was safe.
“As much as I would like to unwrap that package—and believe me, I really, really do,” I told her, “I think we should probably go to the dinner.”
“Are you sure?” I could hear an audible pout in her voice. “Wouldn’t we be intruding on their family time, then?”
“Ben says no,” I replied then added a generic weightiness to the invitation. “It seems pretty important to him that we be there.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
“Dunno,” I said. “But I think it’s important enough to him that we should oblige.”
“What I’m wearing underneath came from a catalog, then,” she offered in a sexy murmur.
“Felicity…”
She gave it one more try. “I could just wait for you under the Yule tree.”
“Uh huh,” I fended her off. “Tomorrow. I promise.”
“Okay, then,” she pouted into the phone again before moving on. “So are you going to make something to take over there? I’ll be late and won’t have…”
“Already taken care of,” I cut her off. “He said don’t bring anything, so I figure I’ll just grab a bottle of wine out of the rack.”
“Sounds good,” she acknowledged. “How about that eighty-six Zinfandel?”
“The Caswell we bought a case of?”
“Aye, that one.”
“Okay. I can do that.”
She paused at the other end, and I could literally feel her checking me out on an otherworldly level. “Are you okay, Rowan?”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Why?”
“You sound distant. Like something is bothering you.”
“I’m okay.”
“You don’t feel okay to me, then.”
“I’m just disappointed that I’m going to miss out on your offer.” At least that was only half a lie.
“Hmmmm,” she purred again, apparently accepting the explanation. “Not missing out, just postponing.”
“I like the sound of that better,” I said.
“Oh, it will be worth the wait,” she murmured. “Trust me.”
* * * * *
“Did ya’ tell ‘er?” Ben asked as I walked out of the conference room.
“No,” I shook my head, “I’ll tell her later.”
“Row…”
“Hey,” I held up my hands to stop his objection, “I convinced her that we should go to your house for dinner tonight. I can pack a few things for her before she gets home, and we can both tell her when we get there.”
“Isn’t she gonna be pissed when she finds out that ya’ ran a game on ‘er?”
“And what I’m doing is different from what you planned to do, how?”
“Touché.”
“In answer to your question, however, yes, she’s going to be pissed,” I told him. “You know that. But look at the bright side. Your way she would have just been mad at you. My way she’ll be mad at both of us.”
“Somehow I don’t find that particularly comfortin’,” he answered.
“You shouldn’t.”
“I got a brand new bottle of sixteen-year-old Bushmills at the house. Think we should get her drunk first, then tell ‘er?”
“Neither of us can drink that much,” I mused. “She’d win and then we’d really be in trouble.”
* * * * *
“There are thirty-eight Ash’s listed in the metro phone book,” Detective McLaughlin told us. “Spelled A-S-H, right, Rowan?”
“That’s what I saw, but it might not have been the whole name.” I nodded with my answer.
“Exactly.” She returned the nod. “Which is why we went right down the line on everything beginning with A-S-H. Still, it was a big help to cut out the A-S-C-H’s. All totaled there are three-hundred forty-nine Ash’s or Ash-whatever’s in the white pages.”
“That’s better than I was expectin’,�
� Ben offered.
“Don’t get excited just yet.” Charlee shook her head. “That’s only the metro phone book. We’re getting a printout from DMV right now, as well as a computer search on phone books from the surrounding counties. The number is gonna get bigger.”
“Yeah, well happy holidays ta’ you too,” Ben told her with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Then you’re gonna love this. I was talking to Ackman and he asked if we were certain that Ash is the surname.” At the end of her sentence she turned a questioning gaze in my direction.
“Honestly, I can’t be sure.” I shook my head and returned a frown. “So I’d have to say that it could be a first name.”
“Well, that’s going to add some more to the pile.”
“What about the street number?” I asked.
“No hit so far,” she returned. “Not against the names anyway. There’s a handful of seventy-five thirty-fours in the metro area alone. Some businesses, some residential.”
I seized on the information and posed a different question. “Are any of the commercial addresses photographic studios by any chance?”
“No such luck. It would really help if we had a street name, or even a zip code.”
Ben poured more water on the fire. “Assumin’ the number ain’t part of a zip code ta’ begin with.”
“Any way you look at that it puts him too far out of state,” she replied. “If you plug numbers in before or after the seventy-five thirty-four, you end up with zip codes in Pennsylvania, North Carolina, South Dakota, Texas, and Oregon.”
“Yeah, but he coulda moved here from one of those places,” Ben remarked. “We should prob’ly make some contacts just in case there’s somethin’ open that didn’t make it inta’ NCIC.”
“Shouldn’t you be trying to narrow the scope instead of expanding it?” I asked.
“We’ll start pickin’ the dolphins out as soon as we’re sure the net’s full,” he told me.
“Okay, so what do we do now?”
“We start looking at printouts and making phone calls,” Charlee answered.
“That could take forever,” I exclaimed.
She shrugged and shook her head. “Welcome to the fast-paced and exciting world of police work.”
Ben clapped me on the shoulder. “Yeah, what she said. Who wants coffee?”
CHAPTER 25
I never wanted to see another telephone book or stack of green bar printer paper for as long as I lived.
According to the window at the back of the conference room, it was dark outside. We had been at it hard and heavy for a few hours now, and I had lost all track of time. Since, in Ben’s words, I wasn’t a “duly authorized law enforcement officer,” I wasn’t allowed to make any of the actual calls. Instead, my presence had been utilized cross-referencing listings in various phone books against computer printouts and screens full of data on an ancient, out-of-focus monitor.
I was tired, I had a headache, my eyes were itching, and I wanted a cigarette; but, most of all, I was depressed. We didn’t seem to have accomplished a thing. In fact, we were still perched firmly in the middle of square one, and someone else was redeeming a free turn card.
The only positive thing to come out of it thus far was that I hadn’t been dwelling on Eldon Porter’s resurfacing. Well, not too much.
“Stick a fork in me, I’m done,” Ben announced with a tired yawn as he sat back in his chair. He and Detective McLaughlin had been contacting other police departments within the range of possible zip codes. What I had been overhearing of their conversations had not sounded promising.
“Anything at all?” I asked aloud.
My elbows were resting on the table in front of me, and I was holding my head tight between my hands, palms on either side of my face. My brain felt as if it was about to explode, and I couldn’t be certain if it was from staring at all the shrunken print, something more sinister, or a combination of the two. I had my eyes closed and was slowly massaging my temples, trying to will the pain away.
“Nada,” my friend returned. “Not a goddamned thing. And that was the last one, so it’s all we’re gonna get tonight.”
“What about all these numbers from the phone books?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we start calling them?”
“And say what, Row?” he contended. “Hi, this is Detective Storm with the city police department, and I’m just wonderin’, are you by any chance a crazed serial rapist?”
McLaughlin half snickered and began massaging her own temples. “Storm’s right. We can’t just start calling people arbitrarily without something more to go on. Besides, what if we did happen to call the right guy? Then he’d know we were getting close and he’d disappear.”
“Yeah, remember the ‘South Side Rapist’?” Ben added. “When things got hot and heavy around here Rabbitt took the whole ‘go west young man’ thing ta’ heart. The last thing we need ta’ do is call the guy and tell ‘im that we’re on to ‘im.”
“There’s got to be something we can do,” I appealed.
“There is,” my friend answered. “Call it a night and come back at it fresh.”
I opened my eyes as I twisted my arm around and looked at my watch. “But it’s only a little after five.”
“Yeah, and it’s freakin’ Christmas Eve, Rowan,” he said. “Remember? Santa Claus, reindeer, divine births of babies in mangers, goodwill towards men? You know, all that holiday stuff? We’ve done all we can do today.”
“What about Debbie Schaffer’s parents?” I pushed the button he had revealed earlier in the day.
My friend frowned at me, hard. The kind of thin-lipped scowl that told me instantly that I shouldn’t have ignored the sign next to the button that read, “Caution: Do Not Press.”
“Like I said before,” he snarled, “it’s gonna be a real disappointin’ holiday.”
“Sorry, Ben,” I apologized, “I shouldn’t have gone there.”
“Yeah, well now that you’ve been there, do me a favor and remember that.”
“Okay, you two,” McLaughlin spoke up. “I’m going to leave you to beat each other up by yourselves. I’ve got a husband and daughter waiting at home for me.”
“Big plans?” Ben asked without looking up.
“Scott always makes the traditional Turducken for dinner, and then we just relax and enjoy being a family.”
“What the hell’s a Turducken?”
“A turkey that’s stuffed with a duck that’s stuffed with a chicken. Oh, and there’s andouille sausage in there too.”
Ben finally cast an eye over his shoulder. He had a classic “give me a break” look creasing his face when he said, “I was serious, Chuck.”
“I’m serious too,” she told him with a grin. “Scott’s from Baton Rouge. It’s a Cajun thing.”
“No friggin’ way. A chicken in a duck in a turkey. Bullshit.”
“Yes way. I’m not kidding.”
“I’ve had Turducken before, Ben,” I interjected. “She’s really not kidding.”
“No shit. Well maybe you two should get together then.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Well why stop there,” he submitted with a shrug. “Shove that damn thing inta’ the bird ya’ served the other night and ya’ can have yourself one big Osturduckenrich.”
* * * * *
The Trans Siberian Orchestra was filling the cab of my truck with their particular brand of no-holds-barred holiday music when I merged onto Highway 40. I had the volume set mid-level so as not to drown out my cell phone if it was to ring. My headache was still with me, but thankfully it had settled to an almost ignorable dull thud somewhere in the vicinity of the right rear portion of my skull. Of course, had it not been for the two-fold reason of A) I liked the song, and B) I liked the song enough that it was helping keep my mind from dwelling on things I’d rather not think about, I would have turned the radio off completely.
Unfortunately, there was still one item that my mind insisted it be allowed t
o ponder, and that was the fact that I still couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched. The feeling had just grown worse as the day wore on. I’d been able to keep it at bay, for the most part, since I was intensely occupied with the cross-referencing tasks. However, now that I was alone and somewhat relaxed, even the frantic rhythms of the music weren’t enough to drive away that annoying itch at the base of my neck. I physically shivered, trying to shake off the feeling, and took another long glance in the rearview mirror.
There wasn’t much to see. Just a wide span of blackness, marred here and there by a pair of headlights—nothing on my tail. No one was purposely following me that I could tell. Of course, I wasn’t any kind of expert on the subject. But it still looked clear as far as I could see.
Even so, the feeling was still there.
I punched in the lighter on the dash and fished a cigarette out of my breast pocket. This would be the third one since I’d walked out of police headquarters. I spit out a hollow cough and noticed tightness in my chest then stuck the butt between my lips anyway. I really needed to do something about this. Maybe now that I had connected the recurrence of the habit with one of the victims it would be easier for me to break.
The lighter popped and I snatched it out of its receptacle, touching the glowing end to the cigarette and taking a deep drag. After replacing the device I took another puff and tucked the smoldering roll of paper and tobacco between my fingers.
“You know that’s really gross, don’t you?” a painfully familiar voice bled through the music.
I tried to ignore the presence. I’d seen enough for one day, and I simply wasn’t sure I could take any more. I continued to stare straight out the windshield.
“I said, you know that’s really gross, don’t you?” the voice insisted.
I still pretended not to hear.
“Hey, I’m talking to you, Rowan!” Debbie Schaeffer demanded my attention again.
Without a word, I reached over to the controls on the radio and moved the volume up a few notches. Almost instantly the speakers let out a staticky pop and went dead.
Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 30