“Why?
“I’ve done some digging in these murders, going back at least five years, and there’s one thread that stands out. Only three murders at a time ever take place, and they’re always with the same backdrop. Not only that, each slaying has a theme common to the victim. The murders also always happen in summer months, starting in June and ending in September.”
My mind flashed to my weekend with Catherine: she and I lying naked in each other’s arms in the summery warm berth of my yacht with confessions of priestly molestations and bunny slaughtering—“And the summer heat from inside their cloth made fathers and sisters crave the coolness of the night...afterward a sacrifice would have to be made…”—I glanced at Frank, noticing his eyes on me. The clever sleuth, I’m sure, was frustrated by the way I clumsily feigned my emotions.
He said, “There’s a Catholic Orphanage in Rock Glen, Ireland. You ever heard of it?”
“I’m afraid not.” I looked out across the room. Roger and Lena were no longer at their Stair Steppers.
“That’s where the two older women were raised. The younger one we’re still not sure about. The dance studio claims she’s from Beirut, Lebanon, but that doesn’t fit so well. Has she told you anything, Jack?”
“Who are you talking about, Frank?”
“The blonde. You spent a night and a day together on your yacht. There’s nothing as revealing as pillow talk.” Frank paused, seemingly waiting for a tic in my face, a tell tale sign that I was ass deep in this murderous charade. He went on, “This is what I think is going down. The three contractors give the murderers orders; the murderers then scope out their three targets and then discover those targets accomplishments, dalliances, and so forth, after which they insidiously toy with them. The last vic who got barbequed, A Kenneth Flint, was a bio-engineer who invented a fire retardant that promised an end to the brush fires that plague us here in Southern California, and that’s why I don’t think the fire was an accident. The other vic two weeks ago, Dr. Bernhard, a proctologist of all things, was found with a stainless-steel dildo up his rectum. Get the picture?”
I pinched a dime and shifted in my seat. A moment of silence squared off between us as we stared out across the gym. I relaxed my sphincter while Frank continued chiseling the plaster, “They use blades of some kind. Our forensics crew thinks they’re attached to special types of gloves, each with four to six-inch claw-like razors extending from the fingers. Here’s the kinky part, they don’t discriminate between the sexes. Three women were murdered the same way two years ago in South Beach Miami, FL. All three were rich, slutty barflies.”
“So how do you know it’s not a man doing this, bi-sexual, at that?”
“It’s a she, all right. The male victims had orgasms right before their deaths. We know by the lack of contusions and skin irritation on the penises that would occur from anal sex that it was vaginal penetration. The victim’s anal cavities had no sign of penis penetration, and the three women killed in Florida were never penetrated. Besides, the background on the male victims, at least two of them anyway, proved them to be heterosexual.”
“So what about the third one?”
“The first victim, a Doctor Bernhard, was bi-sexual, but still no evidence of penis penetration, just the inserted steely Dan.” As if putting his job on hold for a moment, Frank stared across the room. I knew the motions he was maneuvering through were more personal than routine. We were good friends. He looked at me and said, “Not a single hair, pubic or otherwise, or even a drop of saliva is ever recovered from the murder scenes. They use ammonia with bleach to kill any DNA evidence. They mop up pretty good.”
A delicate graphic of Catherine’s smoothly shaven flower appeared in my mind’s eye. Frank pulled out two more printed images and placed them on the table. “Hideous things aren’t they?” he said. “It’s a sketch of what we think the clawed gloves, or what we affectionately call down at the station, The Freddie Krueger’s, may look like.” Frank nodded toward the other print. “That’s a depiction of the mask that the killer probably uses when committing the act.”
My eyes locked on the print. My dream...how the hell? Black-leather gloves with long razor-sharp blades attached to the fingers and an eerie, rubber cat mask flashed through my brain and stared back at me. I said, “The claws I get, slash marks and so forth, but how the hell would you know that the killer wears a mask?”
“Hearsay mostly. Even hedonists have bragging rights. Along with idle talk, these renderings are based on profiled, past cases. It’s a textbook psych cover up, really, using a mask like that. That part of the killer’s past that cloaks their insanity.” Frank forced out a sigh. I could tell he wanted to end this case and not have it turn into another cold case he’d grudgingly have to leave on a shelf. And after viewing those déjà vu images of mask and claws, I too wanted an end to this case—pronto.
“There was a show on Broadway in New York that used masks of cat faces,” he said. “It was called Cats; you ever heard of it?”
Without answering I shifted my eyes away from Frank. The gears in my head spun wildly, trying to connect more of the dots. I settled my eyes back on the photo of the mask.
Frank went on, “It was some theatrical Broadway show about, well...dancing cats. Kind of funny how these newly arrived beauties, two of which were actors in that same Broadway ensemble, showed up here in Newport Beach the same time these two cat-like homicides occurred.”
I leaned back in my chair and panned my sight through the large room—Lena in her shapely spandex and Roger in his colorful clown suit had vanished from the floor.
“Oh, and there’s always these black cigarettes left in the vicinity.” Frank laid yet another photograph on the table. “They’re always found outside the scene of the murder. An obscure brand from Britain; they’re hand rolled and dyed black in some weird black-magic shop in Soho London. That’s also where they get their potions to drug their victims into a state of paralysis.”
What cool demeanor I had left stared dumbly at the patchwork of photos.
“Not even evidence from the cigarette butt was left,” Frank said. “The killer uses some kind of lipstick to shield her spit. She was careful with the tongue, too. She likes to tease us.”
I studied the cigarette butt image and thought of its twin locked in a drawer in my desk at home.
“It’s a trail, Jack, starting in London, then on the east coast and now here in Newport Beach. They plant themselves in nightclubs, and then lure their victims. Two of them act as decoys while the other one strikes stealthily like a cat. They’re performing hits, contracts. The victims can be anyone who step on the toes of the rich and envious. Then the perfect cleanup crew is hired and viola, sensational headlines.”
I remained silent. The bulb in my brain, the one that emits neuron activity, was now a blinding bright…horn-dog playboys, guys with sordid, murderous pasts who stepped on the toes of the rich and spiteful...an envious lover—Emily Pierce? A rich, powerful, and envious widower—Lord Brigham? Anything can and will be used against me in a court of revenge.
Frank said, “They have other methods too like hallucinogenics and other drugs that can put a person into a deep sleep and induce dreams.” Frank’s perfectly aimed smart bombs were battering hard, and the sortie he just uttered— hallucinogenics and other drugs—struck me dead on. My drugged nightcap?
Lena passed by dressed in fashionable street clothes. Frank and I watched her slink across the floor with the poise of a panther. She exited out the front doors.
“Do you have any enemies, Jack?”
“What the hell do you think, Frank?”
“Anyone in particular who would send the blonde so close to you?”
“I have four or five blondes a week; my preferred flavor.”
“I want to crack this case, Jack. I want to draw my pension on a captain’s salary and not a lieutenant’s, and I want you to keep your skin intact.” The tall man stood from the table. He scooped up the photographs
and slipped them into his bag. “You know where I’ll be.” He patted my shoulder and began to walk away.
“Where did you get those coins, Frank? You never told me.”
He paused and said, “Like the cigarettes, there’s always one left near the murder scene. Do me a favor, huh? Let me know if you wake up one morning and find one on your nightstand. Of course by then you may be just another newspaper story.” Detective Sullivan crossed the room and left the building.
20
I had gone into the locker room and saw no sign of Roger, so I treaded my pricey sneakers unfashionably outside to the parking lot. I panned the large lot and grounds until I was sure Roger wasn’t there. As I turned an about face one last time, the sudden rev of a high-performance engine thundered through the parking lot. A black roadster, a Dodge Viper, raced toward me until it screeched dangerously close to my legs. I leaned forward, almost falling onto the hood.
Lena sat at the wheel. Sunglasses brandished her eyes, and, as usual, she aimed straight at me with the pleasantry of a loaded gun. With one foot on the clutch and the other on the gas, she revved taunts of extreme horsepower into my face.
Just then another car, a white Mini Cooper with distinctive red spheres painted on the doors and top depicting the Japanese symbol of a rising sun, sped quickly toward me and stopped abruptly to my other side. A petite woman wearing a shimmering black-vinyl jumper suit and donning a black mask over her face got out of her car.
Knowing that Halloween wasn’t for another five months, and knowing too that Yuko Akagi was as far north on the loony scale as they come, I predicted that in a short span of time one hellacious catfight was soon to break out, and if I had any sense of self-preservation I’d scramble my ass back into the health club and resume slamming a small rubber ball inside a concrete chamber. But like any other man, I was a sucker for a catfight.
Yuko marched across the parking lot. She stood beside me in what could only be described as a farcical yet stylishly clad, kick-ass Geisha outfit. At her side hung a sheathed, Samurai sword, and in her face hung a fierce look of combat.
A smile spread across Lena’s face as she sized up Yuko. Lena then popped open the trunk of her roaster and exited her car. She moved quickly to the trunk and found what she needed. Immediately two knives flung from her hands in rapid sequence, one for me, the other for Yuko.
Yuko’s foot caught mine, and in an instant we both slammed to the pavement on our backs with the two knives narrowly missing us. Yuko sprung to an upright position, unsheathed her sword, and leapt atop Lena’s car screaming out expletives in Japanese. But before Yuko could strike, Lena produced her own sword from the trunk and blocked Yuko’s attack, causing Yuko to roll through her fall and then stand quickly into another fighting stance.
Like all the other dumbstruck spectators in the parking lot, I watched helplessly as the two brazen cats squared off toe to toe. I shouted out, or more like yelped, “What the hell are you doing, Yuko?”
Undeterred, Yuko lunged forward, swinging quick strokes of forged Japanese steel at Lena, in which Lean handedly blocked. Lena’s height, strength, and evil constitution began to advance decidedly against Yuko, whose zeal began to falter early in the first round. But then, as if possessed by some ancient Samurai spirit, Yuko leapt atop Lena’s car and began shrieking an adrenaline-charged Japanese war cry.
Lena advanced, forcing Yuko to somersault again and land feet-first on the pavement. Clamors of steel splintered the air as the two women battled for dominance.
I inched in closer. By this time a large crowd had gathered and I knew I had only one chance to bring the white-skinned bitch down before she served up Yuko into something filleted.
My car was nearby and luckily I had my key fob in my inner pocket. I pressed the emergency alarm button, hoping to create a diversion. A blaring siren pierced the air. Unaffected by the noise, Lena continued her assault, then turned her back to me allowing me the opening I needed to rush in and tackle the Amazonian foot soldier to the ground.
Unfortunately the blade didn’t dislodge from Lena’s hand when she and I slammed against the blacktop. And so with the haste of a man escaping certain death, I rolled sideways, trying to evade a long, razor-sharp blade that I knew was only a brief second away. As I stood, hoping I was far enough away from her sword, I felt it. A quick strike lanced across my arm.
A series of police sirens rang out in the near distance, no doubt summoned by a frantic 9-1-1 call. Yuko rushed Lena from behind, but not without another erroneous cry of attack—“Kiai!”
Lena stood her ground and blocked Yuko’s attack, and, as if holding back, Lena swung her sword and dislodged the rival weapon from Yuko’s hands, causing the ancient sword to sail through the air, then strike the parking lot and spin several revolutions before coming to a stop.
Yuko faced Lena, bowed to her respectively, then hightailed it to her weapon, then her car, after which she sped away.
The deafening sound of sirens finally engulfed the scene. Lena marched to her car, dropped her sword into the trunk and hurried with confident poise to the driver’s seat. With a parting, until next time, sneer directed my way, she escaped the scene.
Before the squad cars were able to come to complete stop in the parking lot, I entered the club and met Roger in the foyer. “Jack, why do I hear police sirens outside?”
“C’mon,” I said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” Roger and I slipped through the front door and into the parking lot until we reached my car.
“What the hell happened to your arm, Jack—you’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.” We mounted my Porsche.
“Why the hell is there such chaos in the parking lot?” Roger asked.
“Some kind of domestic dispute, I guess.” I eased my car from the parking stall and prodded my way through the throng of spectators looking for blood. “Where were you?” I asked.
“I was showering and talking to Lena—oh, and I’m hooked up. She and I have a date this evening.”
“Gird your loin and make sure you drive.”
“What, Jack?”
“Never mind.”
I pulled out of the parking lot, eyeing in my rearview mirror swirling arcs of red-and-blue emergency lights.
21
With Emily it was a fixation, the kind I had for women like her: the platinum blonde hair; the emerald-green eyes; the shrewd granite-bitch yet sweetly divine face. Even in her late forties she was centerfold material, fully equipped with the rose-colored skin, hips and breasts in perfect proportion. The woman could stop a clock.
I met her at a Hollywood jazz festival one summer, and during a warm afternoon of wine tasting and cajoling, we both found a mutual dependency we could bring home and sleep with. Estranged as our relationship is, Emily is the only steady in my life, and, if anything, she’s kept me tethered to a far-reaching ball and chain, which, for better or worse, has kept my ass intact.
“Mr. Stud of the county, cock of the harbor, Oh, Jack, Jacky...you—oh, baby, do it.” We stood in her bedroom in our house, tightly embraced and practically swallowing each other’s tonsils.
“Take it off,” I demanded, helping her strip her clothes. My voice was of a man who had lost a long time ago.
“Oh, Jacky, you want it, don’t you, baby? Give it to me—give it to me hard.” She gritted her teeth and moaned like a sex-starved nymph. We landed solid atop the bed.
“Off now,” I whispered like a hot, blue torch.
I peeled off her panties and drew close to her crotch, catching that spoor of incantation, forging my little jack into a steel piston. My breath hissed as I caressed my tongue along her inner thigh and hot vagina.
“Oh, Jacky, Jacky...oh God!” her voice shuddered; her body trembled; her fingernails clawed my scalp. Shit—you’re pulling my hair!
“I love you, Jack...ooooh, Jacky, do you love me?”
“Yes,” I muttered between delicate nibbles and predacious bites. “God, how I love you.” Fuck�
��stop pulling my hair!
“I’ve missed you, baby…did you miss me?”
I lifted myself upright, freeing my scalp from her fingernails. “Yes,” I said, “Goddamn it, yes...I missed you.” I then mounted her, sinking myself deep into that soft, warm passage to nowhere. She gasped; her fingernails now clawed my ass, plunging me deeper. The bed rattled.
Moments later, she propped herself against the headboard of the bed. I reclined on my back, observing a flying insect buzzing aimlessly along the ceiling.
“And how is our island, love—oh, and this wonderful conformist harbor town?” Her voice resumed its usual drone of arrogance. She lit a cigarette, crimping her lips around the butt.
“It’s as always,” I said. “How’s business?”
“The world has an odeur of elegance. My fragrance is everywhere.”
I had a sudden thought of me with a long handlebar mustache, furling it in my fingers as I crooned creepily, “You’re lucky it doesn’t smell like Giorgio Armani, my lovely.” I then imagined Emily and I playing a game of choke the lover. Anyway, I zeroed my attention back on that stupid bug on the ceiling and began sniffing the air, trying to figure out if it was stale flatulence mixed with cancer-stick fumes or just the grilled salmon we had for dinner last night.
I pulled myself from bed, then walked to the bureau and lifted a bottle of water and drained a long jigger. The water chilled the toxic heat inside me, trying to purify something.
In the mirror above the bureau, I saw the reflection of a large trunk on the floor that belonged to Emily. I had picked the lock easily with a paper clip the day before, after which I moved the contents to another location. Inside the trunk were three handbags stuffed with different colored wigs, black leather gloves sporting six-inch claws—the Freddie Krueger’s—and a rubber cat mask.
Frank Sullivan’s skillful probing the other day caused me to zero in on the most logical, unexpected hiding place in my house. The drugged martini or whiskey nightcap; the wet bare feet across my kitchen floor, which were the exact size of Catherine Fleming’s feet, were all laid out in scattered pieces. A partnership between Carmella Falsetto and Catherine Fleming? Happenstance or teamwork?
The Irresistible Muse of Jack Kidd Page 14