Death in the Secret Garden

by Forrest, Richard;

  She began to have second thoughts. You didn’t fool with Baby Dumpling that way. The escort service had been good to her. The money was terrific. After the first month, when she had learned the techniques of maximizing her tips, she was earning two thousand, tax-free, a week.

  She never considered herself ‘in the business’, a prostitute, whore, or call girl. She was an escort who charged a fixed hourly rate which she split with the agency. If men insisted on tipping her an extra two hundred a pop for going to bed with them, she acquiesced without thought of giving any commercial description to the coupling.

  Each week she made a Saturday-morning trip to Murphysville Federal’s vault and her safe deposit box. The tidy little hoard continued to grow. In vague daydreams she planned to quit the escort business when she grew really old, like maybe thirty. At that time she would open a smart boutique. Her excellent taste in clothing and accessories would turn it into one of the smartest fashion shops in the area.

  Today, like most days, she had slouched from bed at noon. After a leisurely shower she belted a robe and went to the kitchen for brunch. Ordinarily it would be soap opera time, but today required the Baby Dumpling call. Actually, life was pretty good. It would get even better when she figured out how to squeeze some more tax-frees from that unfinished session with the dead congressman.

  Ashley frowned when the doorbell rang. She ignored it until it rang three more times in rapid succession. She strode angrily to the door, her short robe flapping around bare thighs. If it was a salesperson or Jehovah’s Witness she would burn them with a couple of good wisecracks she’d learned from Baby Dumpling.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ Ashley said when she opened the door. ‘What are you staring at? You want a peek, pervert?’ She flipped the robe open to reveal the full length of her nude body.

  The small handgun fired.

  She staggered backwards until the small of her back jammed against a door knob. The robe fell in a pool at her feet. She looked at her stomach in astonishment. Blood oozed from a hole in her lower belly.

  ‘My God,’ Ashley said. ‘What have you done to me?’

  She lurched toward the phone and dialed 911 with trembling hands.

  ‘I need an ambulance,’ Ashley said before she dropped dead.

  When the phone rang, Lyon sensed it was Rocco.

  ‘We have another one,’ the chief said over a connection filled with background noise. ‘A woman with a First Cav patch in her hand.’

  ‘Who was she?’ Lyon asked.

  ‘Ashley Towers who lived on Beacon Street.’

  ‘Don’t know her.’

  ‘I would hope not. She’s in the business.’

  ‘What business?’

  ‘The sex business, Lyon. Jesus.’

  ‘You’ve always bragged about how proud you were to keep that stuff out of town.’

  ‘She worked an escort service out of Middleburg.’

  ‘OK. She had a job problem with her pimp and he killed her in a copy-cat murder.’

  ‘Escort girls don’t have pimps, they have agents.’

  ‘How was she killed?’

  ‘The same as the others. A small-caliber bullet in the lower abdomen. She died like the Styles woman, in that she managed to dial 911. No ballistics match yet, but I’d stake my career that it’s the same weapon. Her house door was wide open and a neighbor saw her on the floor before an ambulance could get there. Similar to the Anderson woman, Ashley was nude when she died. Meet me.’

  ‘Where on Beacon did she live?’ Lyon flipped a piece of copy paper from a desk drawer.

  ‘The lab guys and Lars are here. I have to go to Spook’s tree house. He walked off the grounds of the VA hospital earlier today.’ The connection went dead.

  ‘Great timing, Spook,’ Lyon said to himself as he searched for the car keys.

  Rocco was leaning against Spook’s tree when Lyon arrived. He gave a short wave and continued talking on his hand radio. ‘Good work, Jamie. Now come over to Spook’s and relieve me. He’ll come back here eventually. It’s just a question of time. Out.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Lyon asked.

  ‘At the time of Ashley’s death, Canon Mead MacIntire claims he was bird-watching out near your place. Jamie just told me that Skee Rumford claims he was in the sack with his college girlfriend, Lori Wappinger.’

  ‘That guy gets around,’ Lyon said. ‘What about Mildred Rashish?’

  ‘Said she was at home. No witnesses to verify.’

  ‘And you think?’

  ‘Still fishing, but I’m thinking sin here. How about the good canon has gone around the bend and decided to take the atonement of sin into his own hands? He’s grown impatient waiting for heavenly thunderbolts and settled on a thirty-two-caliber handgun for divine retribution. Look at the profile of our victims: Boots is pregnant after an affair with a married man; Barbara Styles was robbing the church blind; and Ashley was a hooker. He’s handing out retribution by the fistful.’

  ‘And yet we know that the Wappinger girl will lie for Skee.’

  Rocco sighed. ‘And Spook takes today to walk away from the hospital while Mildred R. has no real alibi.’

  ‘I can’t see any possible connection between Mildred the Shark and Ashley Towers,’ Lyon said.

  ‘Predator realtor needs high political favors and in payment eliminates a dead congressman’s mistress.’

  ‘I know anything is possible,’ Lyon said, ‘but that seems to be reaching.’

  ‘Which is why I lean toward the canon,’ Rocco said. ‘He’s into sin.’

  ‘I would assume he’s against it.’

  ‘I’ve been in police work long enough to work up a high dose of cynicism,’ Rocco said. ‘Maybe the Reverend has become addicted to dispatching the wayward. Let’s check out Ashley’s employer.’

  The Middleburg Escort Service did not have an office as such. In fact, no address was listed in the phone directory or on its advertising. The Yellow Pages ad contained a phone number surrounded by credit card logos.

  Rocco called one of his counterparts in Middleburg. The cruiser’s radio was patched through to Lieutenant Tommy Lark. ‘How’s the angle of the dangle, Tom?’

  ‘I heard you was on hazard duty, Rocco. Writing parking tickets at the green underneath all those pigeons.’

  ‘I was. It’s a tough life, Tom. I need a quick check on an outfit called the Middleburg Escort Service. They were running a girl from Murphysville.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Rocco,’ the gravelly voice of the Middleburg police lieutenant said. ‘I can’t talk that dirt on an open radio. There are nine thousand housewives with police scanners in their kitchens. Call me on landlines. Better yet, meet me at Charlie’s.’

  Charlie’s Bar was located on Middleburg’s Main Street and was obviously an establishment devoted to serious drinkers. Four men stood in a line at the bar. They each held a drink in one hand and stared at their reflected souls in the mirror behind the bar. A dark-complexioned fifth man stood with his back against the far wall. He was half turned toward the door. He did not seem interested in his reflected soul.

  Lark was middle-aged, but he kept in shape. His forehead had hardened into a perpetual scowl and there was an inner tenseness about him. His manner made others uneasy. If he sat next to you on a bus you would want to change seats.

  Rocco feinted a blow to the other officer’s abdomen. Lark did not flinch, but continued watching them with dark-pooled eyes. He tilted his head toward Lyon. ‘If he’s one of your new guys you must really be scraping up bottom feeders.’

  ‘Lyon, meet Tommy Lark.’

  Lyon’s extended hand was ignored. The bartender refilled the lieutenant’s glass without request. Lark drank before answering. ‘Yeah, I heard about some guy who worked with you. We get those police nuts sometimes.’

  ‘He’s more than a police groupie,’ Rocco said. ‘Pepper vodka. Stoly if you have it, and a Dry Sack for my buddy,’ he said to the bartender.

  The bartender looked puz
zled. ‘Dry what?’

  ‘Coffee,’ Lyon said.

  ‘Why the hell do you want to speak to Baby Dumpling?’ Lark asked. ‘Jesus, Herbert, are you that desperate to get your ashes hauled? But I got to tell you, cop or not, Baby doesn’t let her girls give out free samples. If you’re really horny, I’ll try leaning on her a little. She’s got this one redhead in her stable who gives the best head in the state.’

  ‘Let me ask you a question, Tommy,’ Rocco said. ‘How do you talk when you are in polite society?’

  ‘I don’t travel in polite anything. If you haven’t noticed, I am a street cop. In Middleburg that means tough. In country club towns, like yours, street cop means you got school crossing guard duty.’

  ‘Who is Baby Dumpling?’ Lyon asked.

  ‘Baby is the Middleburg Escort Service,’ Lark answered.

  ‘And where does Baby park her playpen?’ Rocco asked.

  Lark nearly smiled. ‘Dumpling doesn’t get around much. You’ll see why when we meet her.’ He tossed back another shot and left the bar without paying. ‘We’ll take my heap.’

  Lark drove with Rocco next to him. Lyon sat in the back and noticed that the rear doors did not have inside handles.

  ‘How come you let a whorehouse operate in your town?’ Rocco asked.

  ‘In the beginning we busted Baby a couple of times. But she’s a duly registered business and nothing would hold up in court. We could harass her and make life unpleasant but, as you will see, there are certain logistical problems in busting Baby. This visit have anything to do with the killings you’ve had down there?’

  ‘One of Baby’s employees, Ashley Towers, got whacked earlier today,’ Rocco said.

  ‘Christ! I know her. That’s the redhead I was telling you about. Here we are.’

  Lark braked abruptly in front of a small ranch house located in a working-class neighborhood. The lawns and walks of the other homes seemed to sprout small children’s toys. A low white fence bordered the Dumpling home with a neat sign that said ANTIQUES.

  ‘What’s with the antiques?’ Rocco asked.

  Lark slammed from the car. ‘The antiques business is a front for the credit cards. When Baby lets the girls take plastic money, she can’t hardly submit chits reading “one straight, one French, and an around the world.” She writes them up as Chippendale, Empire or French Provincial.’ He began to pound on the door with the flat of his hand.

  ‘Please come in,’ a melodious and cultured voice said over a speaker system. ‘It is unlocked.’

  Lark pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  ‘I keep informing you, Lieutenant, that we only service out calls. We do not provide escorts in my home.’

  Since Baby Dumpling occupied nearly all of the small living room, Lyon understood why the local police had logistical problems in her arrest. The cultured voice did not match the gigantic woman who occupied most of the custom-made hospital bed. He estimated that she must weigh over five hundred pounds. Her massive bulk created a huge mound on the bed even when it was tilted to an upright position.

  Centered on a hospital caddie close to her ponderous arms were Baby’s working tools: a ten-line phone console and notepad.

  ‘This looks like a bust,’ Baby said. ‘Since I’ve gained a pound or two, this time you’re going to have to remove the picture window to carry me out.’

  ‘Tell these gentlemen how the service works,’ Lark commanded.

  ‘I am a licensed business who pays state and federal taxes,’ Baby began her automatic recital. ‘Our escort services are listed in the Yellow Pages, and certain other classified advertisements. When I receive a client call requesting an escort, I contact one of my independent contractors. This young lady meets with the gentleman for an escort fee which the independent contractor and the service divide.’

  ‘Get to the good part, Baby,’ Lark said.

  Baby Dumpling glared. ‘If they get romantically involved, that is not my responsibility. As I said, the women are independent contractors. Romance is their personal business.’

  ‘That’s romance?’ Lark said to no one in particular.

  ‘Now, Lark, honey,’ Baby cooed. ‘I do not ordinarily do in-house escorting, but in your case I’ll make an exception. You turn me on, honey. That big gun you carry really turns me on.’

  If Lyon did not suspect that the lieutenant was incapable of the emotion, he might have thought that Lark was blushing.

  ‘Not today, Baby. Chief Herbert has some questions for you.’

  The huge woman’s gaze turned toward Rocco. ‘You are a big one,’ she purred. ‘I give you the same offer that Lark turned down.’

  Rocco Herbert did blush. ‘One of your girls—’

  ‘Escorts,’ Baby snapped.

  ‘Ashley Towers lived in my town.’

  ‘Lived?’

  ‘She was murdered earlier today,’ Rocco answered.

  For the first time Baby registered a true emotion. Shock. ‘On one of my calls? Who? What motel? Wait a minute. Ashley called me this morning. She wasn’t on a job, she was into things literary. If that bitch was freelancing …’

  ‘She was killed in her Murphysville home,’ Rocco answered with the pleasant thought that at least this woman was not one of their suspects. The logistics of moving Baby Dumpling to Murphysville were too daunting to imagine. ‘Do you happen to know if any of Ashley’s recent escorts were politically connected?’

  It was difficult for Baby to squint due to her puffy cheeks that pressed toward her eyes. She looked at Rocco with renewed interest. ‘You speak of a certain recently departed congressman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ashley did have a job at the Millrace Inn. A political luncheon, I am sure.’

  ‘Do you have any men working in your organization?’ Lyon asked.

  ‘We have several young men on call for occasional feminine escorts. You know how it is these days. Women are in all the occupations, including traveling sales and management. Some get lonely when they are in Middleburg. From time to time we get a call for a personable young man. As a matter of fact, we have a young man from your town that we occasionally use. He’s quite popular due to his stamina. Clients often request a return visit when they come back to the city.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Rocco said as he snapped open his small notebook.

  ‘His name is Skee Rumford and I have his address right—’

  ‘Never mind,’ Rocco said as he closed the notebook without an entry. ‘I’d like to see a list of Ashley’s clients for the past month.’

  ‘I do not keep those records,’ Baby immediately answered.

  Tommy Lark, who had been leaning against the doorway with his arms folded, took two steps toward the bed. Without a visible gesture the man’s movement seemed menacing. ‘I think your memory will improve as you work,’ Tommy said softly. ‘Start making the list, Baby.’

  There were sixty names on Baby Dumpling’s final list. Rocco crossed off the obvious phony ones such as Ulysses S. Grant, a Don Juan, and four Bill Clintons. He underlined several: E. Rashish, M. MacIntire, and Jamie Martin.

  ‘How did Jamie afford Ashley on what we pay him?’ Rocco wondered aloud.

  Lyon wondered if M. MacIntire had worn his clerical collar.

  Ten

  Rocco drove the cruiser with his usual one-handed grip. He flipped the notebook from his breast pocket. ‘Read that list of Ashley’s customers again while I phone the lab about those ballistics.’ Lyon went through the list line by line while Rocco made his call. ‘What’s the ballistics match for the specimen we sent over today?… OK, thanks.’ He abruptly ended the call. ‘The slug is damaged. They can’t make a positive match with the other two.’

  ‘Then we could have a copy-cat murder,’ Lyon said.

  ‘That’s a possibility. Maybe we had better have another look at Congressman Bill Tallman’s autopsy report. It’s possible that someone just might have wanted Ashley out of the way.’

  ‘That’s going to stir u
p more hornets for Bea.’

  ‘Can’t be helped. The good canon’s on Ashley’s list, isn’t he?’

  ‘A similar name,’ Lyon answered. ‘I can’t believe the canon was dallying with our departed redhead. M. MacIntire certainly does not stand for Canon Mead MacIntire of Saint James Church.’

  ‘This could be a first,’ Rocco said. ‘A sexually crazed, bird-watching canon.’

  ‘Who’s a serial killer?’

  ‘That seems to be what we’ve got here.’

  ‘How many victims does it take to make a serial killer? We have three, do we go for four?’

  ‘That isn’t funny.’

  ‘Then stop the nonsense about the canon. One simple way is to ask him if he knew Ashley.’

  ‘That has to be done, although it would be a hell of a lot more politically expedient if you did it.’

  ‘Look at the good news. Spook wasn’t on Ashley’s list,’ Lyon said.

  Rocco grimaced. ‘I doubt that he’s capable of performing after his years of substance abuse.’

  Lyon laughed. ‘What desk clerk would let him in the lobby, much less allow him on an elevator to go up to a room?’

  Rocco slowed the cruiser as they exited the bypass and drove toward police headquarters. They passed the green with its gazebo and hanging tree. He turned right at the Congregational church.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Rocco said as they neared the police services building. ‘Look at that.’

  An assortment of vehicles clogged the street. A television van squatted directly in front of the building. It extended its microwave tower and slowly rotated it toward Hartford. The logos on two other cars marked them as belonging to the Hartford Courant newspaper and Channel Seven. Other vans and sedans were not so readily identifiable. A disgruntled group of men and women milled around the sidewalk in front of the building. Jamie Martin, a nightstick clutched across his chest, barred any entry.

  ‘Whatever number it takes to make a serial killer,’ Rocco said, ‘I believe we have reached it.’ He pulled the cruiser in the drive and drove around to the rear of the building. They entered through the back door. Their hope for a quiet sanctuary in Rocco’s office was shattered when he opened his door. ‘Jesus H. Christ,’ Rocco said.