Hell's Door

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Hell's Door Page 7

by DeLuca, Sandy


  Lacey’s cell pulsed, and she quickly retrieved it from her pocket, flipping it open.

  “Detective Powers.”

  Gino’s voice was somber. “Was having coffee at Vin’s Bistro, on Harris, when a couple of working girls knocked on the window, calling me outside…shaking like they’d seen the devil. Said they got spooked when they saw somebody who looked a lot like Ramsay hanging outside The Vintage Shop on Atwells. Said it looked like she was covered in blood. Might be nothing…might not have even been our girl, but I figured you were in the area.”

  “How long ago did they see her?”

  “Half hour or so…”

  “Thanks, Gino. We’ll check it out.” She disconnected the call, and then asked John, “What’s the name of the place Laura owns?”

  “The Vintage Shop…on Atwells. Why?”

  “Might be nothing. A few of Gino’s girls saw somebody out there…and…”

  “Oh my God, Laura,” John whispered. He clutched the steering wheel and slowed as a light turned red.

  Lacey reached over and placed her hand on his shoulder. “I’ll drive. Pull over at the next corner.”

  “Yeah, sure. Hey, maybe it’s a false alarm. Maybe…”

  “Just let me drive, all right?”

  He nodded slowly, with eyes tearing, and eased his car to a curb once the light turned green. His face was ashen as Lacey drove through the downpour and toward their destination…into mystery once more.

  * * *

  Lacey hunched her shoulders, and made her way to the door; then she tried the knob. “Door’s locked.”

  “What the hell? See? She’s probably in there. Maybe asleep, or in the back room sorting out stock.” John’s voice shook when he spoke.

  “You okay? I can call Gino…or…”

  “I’m fine,” John whispered, but his voice…the look in his eyes…told Lacey he feared the worst.

  Lacey knocked, called out for Laura, but no one answered.

  John moved to her side, pointed his gun at the lock and fired. The blast was diluted by the storm’s fury.

  “If this is a false alarm, you’re in deep shit.”

  “Nothing new. Laura will be on my case…like always.”

  Lacey heaved her shoulder against the door and it crashed open. She clutched her automatic, looking right, left, and then upward, and then she saw Laura, mutilated, covered in blood…dead. She took a few more steps. “Laura. Shit. John, you’d better...”

  John’s hands shivered when he moved in front of his partner. He merely stood there, trembling, running his hands through his hair.

  Lacey gripped John’s shoulder as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks.

  He grabbed the edge of a counter, wiped the tears away, and then knelt by Laura’s side, arms folded, rocking back and forth. “You should have come back to me, baby. It would have been all right if you’d just stayed…”

  “I’m so sorry,” Lacey said softly, knowing John did not hear, so she left him there, moving into the rain, slipping her cell from her belt. She dialed Gino, hoping he’d pick up, and he did. She filled him in, speaking quickly.

  “I know it’s not your case…but I need you here. We need you.”

  “Anything for you, kid,” Gino told her.

  Next she called for backup, then forensics. She pressed the disconnect button, and then leaned against the door frame, feeling the rain against her skin, watching traffic slow, listening to sirens in the distance and to John’s mournful screams to a merciless god.

  * * *

  Gino rushed into the boutique, gently placing his hands on John’s shoulders, speaking softly, “John, I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m going to kill that bitch myself, make her suffer…I…” John waved his hands.

  “Just take it easy. Do what you need to.” Gino took on a distant look, speaking slowly.

  John stood slowly, then looked to police cars lined up on the street. “I need to…”

  “We’ve got it, man,” Lacey said softly as she watched John step outside, shoulders hunched, unsteady and sobbing openly. She went to Gino’s side. “Rough one, Gino. Glad you came. If John can’t go on with…”

  “Your partner…he’s tough, Lacey. He’ll mourn…cry…scream, but he won’t let it rest. And that’s why Ramsay has to go down for this.”

  She looked beyond the door, at John pacing back and forth in the rain, lips moving, and eyes red. “We’re all tough…but shit like this can do you in…even if you’re made of steel.”

  Gino nodded, looked to the body, and then spoke slowly. “Didn’t take her head.”

  “Was a fast job. Lots of people around here earlier.”

  “Sloppier than usual. Stuff like that normally does a killer in.”

  Lacey stooped beside the body. “I just want it to end. Maybe this is the one…” She donned gloves, and then told him, “She went through hell before she passed.”

  It looked as though Laura had been attacked by a wild animal. Her eyes were wide open, but glazed over. One eye was missing an eyelid and her skin was alabaster.

  Gino took a long, deep breath, and then began to speak deliberately. “Read all the reports. The brownstone bodies—just partial prints—blood at the scene belonged to the victims. All they found were a few fibers that didn’t jibe. Rain from a leaky roof and decomposition erased what the killer couldn’t. This scene is messier, not as much time to clean up.”

  “Maybe it’s the end then, Gino.”

  “It’s never over, kid, there’s always another body…another scene from hell.”

  “Always,” she said softly as she took in the coppery stench, wanting more than anything to have closure…to have peace.

  18

  Laura liked to chat outside the boutique on gallery nights, smoking clove cigarettes, watching the steady flow of diners, dancers and spectators. People would stop and admire clothing and accessories in the shop window. Sometimes she connected with people she’d met at online dating sites, and most times things got crazy on the floor of that boutique. If you stood close enough to that shop window and peered inside—in between the blinds—you could see her. Legs and arms twined around one lover or another; men with wives waiting at home, or young girls who walked away, wearing a silk scarf or a knitted beret, bearing gifts from a lonely woman.

  Laura stood in the rain on the night she died, smoke making cloudy circles around her head, her eyes distant, filled with sadness. She’d ordered pizza earlier, flirting with the delivery guy, tipping him too much, and then sighing deeply when he walked away. Over the months the lines at the corners of her lips became deeper and her once curvy figure had turned to fat. She tried to hide it with loose-fitting clothes, forsaking sleek dresses and tailored pants on display in her boutique. Nothing worked, and the time had come to save her.

  In the beginning it seemed as though there might be a chance for her. She worked hard, from early morning, until late evening, dusting, ironing and sorting clothes, shining counters and glass, sweeping and unpacking boxes.

  But most nights, when there was nothing more to clean or straighten, or sell, she’d welcome strangers into her shop—singles—pairs and trios—and she’d give them her body—her soul—for a few hours of elation.

  During an interminable storm she’d allowed her last lover inside—crying when the first cut was made—screaming when her face was eaten—then there was silence when the final kiss came.

  * * *

  Gabriel thought about a girl he’d met years before in New York; a pretty woman, with dark hair and blue eyes. He was the artist then, a painter who’d come to town to sell his wares on West Broadway, and he’d told her about his work, when he’d picked her up in a club, bought her drinks, and then she went down on him in a taxicab.

  He brought her to a loft he’d rented in Tribeca. She did anything he asked, delighting in his stamina, but she screamed when he held a knife to her belly, forcing her to cut her face with a broken wine bottle.

  “Such pretty
designs on your skin. You’re very artistic. Do you like art?” he asked her, gazing through the window. “There’s lots of good painters in the city, most unknown. They sell their work out there.” He pointed to the sidewalk. “They do it to pay the rent, and to buy food.”

  The girl’s eyes were unfocused. He wondered if she’d faint before it ended. “All this blood.” The woman put her hand to her stomach, crimson stains soaked bedsheets. She let out a cry, then doubled over. “It hurts.”

  He held a hand mirror in front of her.

  “My God, my fucking face. Where’s the knife? I’ll finish it now.”

  He stood over her, mocking her. “God has little to do with this. It’s about us. You have to experience pain. If you feel its intensity, then you’ll love me more when I release you from it—when I make you what I need you to be—free from your sins.” He tapped his fingers on the night table. “You can be prettier than you ever were.”

  “I don’t care.” The girl tried to get up, and he pushed her down.

  “I care.” Gabriel bent down, rubbed a finger over her face, and then licked the blood he’d gathered.

  The girl shifted. Her eyes filled with tears. “End it, please.”

  “Such a dilemma…love and pain…” Gabriel crossed his arms.

  “Kill me.” The girl rolled over, fell from the bed, crawled on the blood-spattered rug, leaving crimson palm prints when she moved.

  Anger filled him. “What did I say? Did you hear a word?”

  Hours passed. He severed the girl’s toes, then blinded her. “Suffer,” he whispered. “It’s the only way.”

  No one heard her screams above loud party music from the next room.

  “Your beauty is forever,” he’d told her. He leaned over to kiss her, and then he sliced her throat.

  Gabriel opened his eyes, remembering it took hours to chop up the body, to clean up the mess. How many years had passed? He lost count. He couldn’t remember how many women there were. That girl’s skull was now devoid of flesh, bones white and clean—and sparkling in candlelight.

  He wondered if God accepted her into his heaven, or if her ghost still resided in that room in Tribeca.

  19

  John bent down and touched Laura’s hand. “She didn’t want to get married, told me she hated what I do, that she was afraid I’d die on the job. I could have done something else, worked in the psych unit, and been a counselor.”

  “Not you, kid.”

  “I just want to drive away—from this city—from the death.”

  “Look, Gino and I have got it. It’s not right for you to stick around.”

  “What will I do? Think about her? About what she went through? Maybe I could have stopped it, insisted we work things out…stopped her from…” He touched Laura’s forehead. “Half her fucking face is chewed off. She almost took her head.” He wiped a tear from his eye, and then stepped outside once more, gazing at the sky, allowing rain to drench his hair and clothes, and then eventually sitting in his car, fists pounding the steering wheel.

  Lacey turned to Gino. Her voice was stoic. “Standard police manual says not to think the victim is dead unless the body is in rigor, the trunk is severed or the head is completely off. Whoever wrote it just hasn’t seen the shit we have.”

  She gazed at dresses hanging in neat rows, hats piled on shelves above them. Rhinestone jewelry hung on hooks. Laura had painted the place a deep pink. She’d stenciled borders—Victorian ladies in lavish dress—over door frames and wall edges. The floor was covered with an antique rug, pink and violet flowers. She’d probably picked it up from a street vendor, or in an antique shop.

  “She put her heart and soul into this place. Things got way too out of hand.” Lacey wanted to cry at that moment.

  Gino nodded, then rubbed his temple. “Get a grip, kid. Let’s secure the crime scene.” He pointed to a wardrobe closet at the rear of the store. Its mahogany doors were wide open, displaying vintage coats with fake fur collars. “Maybe we should check it out.”

  Lacey nodded a silent agreement.

  Several uniformed cops now guarded the exterior. They told curious residents, awakened by sirens, to go back to the shelter of their homes above darkened eateries, galleries and shops. Other policemen blocked the entrance to the street. Squad car lights flashed. The cops lined up orange cones, and frustrated news reporters and cameramen couldn’t obtain clear shots of the scene.

  Two other senior detectives had arrived within minutes of Lacey’s call. An older guy they called Irish, and his partner Regina Tavarez, began to investigate the remainder of the building. Several other cops checked the alley, flashing lights into other buildings on the block. They checked cars parked along the street, and then scanned rooftops.

  Lacey and Gino moved silently, placing yellow tape barricades outside the building, marking areas of possible evidence for protection until forensics arrived.

  “Wanna check out that door now?” Lacey clutched her automatic in both hands.

  “I’m with you. We’ll call Irish and Regina if things get really weird.”

  “Maybe we should call them now?”

  “Come on, kiddo. We’re capable. The boogeyman isn’t going to jump out at us.”

  “Yeah, procedure is for pussies.”

  Gino forced a smile, and then motioned for Lacey to follow.

  They moved toward the dresser. Their shoulders touched as they moved past counters laden with feathered capes and gloves trimmed with pearls. Leftover pizza lay in a box by the register. The pungent odor of garlic and Italian spices permeated the air.

  Lacey surveyed the dresser. It was at an odd angle. There was a space between it and the door, wide enough for someone to squeeze through.

  “Let’s go slow,” she advised. “Something could be wrong here. Perp could be in there. Let’s keep our fucking guns drawn.”

  The detectives slid through the opening, finding the storeroom door slightly ajar. They entered. The room was small, no bigger than a closet. Boxes were piled against walls. Rain beating on pavement and their slow, steady breathing were the only sounds.

  “Nothing.” Lacey leveled her shoulders.

  Gino spoke quickly. “Perp must have been on Laura’s heels when she came back in. Maybe he was hiding outside, and then came at her. Place needs to be gone over closer, but there’s the body to deal with—”

  Lacey interrupted. Her mind raced. “Door locked automatically behind them. She didn’t look behind her, and…” She relaxed her arm, and then held her weapon by her side. “Key’s on a hook behind the counter. Perp also could have snuck in when she went outside for a smoke, dragged her in.”

  “Maybe.”

  Lacey touched the brim of her cap. She sniffed the air, and then made a face. “Place stinks, but boxes and crap near the door don’t look like they’ve been disturbed.”

  “Guys from Trace will take a closer look. Come on.” Gino gripped Lacey’s elbow.

  Lacey carefully slid her gun in its holster, and then they both stepped back into the shop.

  “Should be a couple of minutes before the ME and company arrive. I want to take another look in here, check the cash register receipts, stuff like that. I want a closer look at her, too. We’ll go over everything again once I’m done. Okay with you?”

  “Yeah, but why her?”

  “She was a lonely girl. Liked to hook up with people through online dating—most were one-night stands. Things were spiraling downward for her. John knew what was going down…tried like hell to stop it, but he couldn’t.” Gino waved his hand, nodding as the ME entered, and then he moved into the never-ending storm.

  20

  Anna took her place in line, clutching her bus ticket, and shivering because it was humid, wet and dark. It was comfortable inside the station, but she wanted to make sure she got a seat. There were too many travelers heading to New York, and once they filled the bus, there would be an hour wait for another.

  Her leg hurt like a bitch, but she’d
told herself countless times she was lucky to be alive. Had she been smaller, slower and weaker, she wouldn’t have gotten away.

  Pain seared through her thigh, and she grimaced, biting her lips and cursing under her breath. They’d given her twelve stitches at the ER, and the doctor prescribed pain pills, but they didn’t help much. She’d take another once she got on the bus, catch some sleep, and she’d go to a clinic when she got to New York, try to get something stronger.

  An elderly woman stood behind her, wearing a thin coat and no hat.

  “Got soaked in the downpour,” the woman told her.

  “Well somebody saved my ass earlier. No reason why I can’t help a lady in need.” Anna opened her bag, pulled out a scarf, sweatshirt and a hat, and then helped the woman into the dry gear. “Won’t be long before the bus gets here. Just hang on,” she told the woman.

  She’d downed two large coffees, and the need to pee became overwhelming, so she pushed her bag closer to the woman, asking, “Hold my spot while I to go to the powder room?”

  “Sure, honey. Be glad to.”

  Anna moved through a swarm of people, past the ticket counter, vending machines and to a restroom at the rear of the station. The place was clean, small and stark, with only a small mirror over a large sink, and two stalls standing side by side. Someone murmured unintelligible words from inside one of them. She pushed open the door to the empty compartment, hurriedly slipped down her jeans and underwear, and then sighed as she relieved herself.

  The murmuring grew louder, and then a cracking sound emerged. Someone grunted, and then a dark figure leaned over the partition separating the stalls.

  Anna looked upward, not believing her eyes, moving slightly away from the toilet and wetting her legs, clothing and the floor. Her wound stung as urine poured over it. She tried to move to the door, but her feet tangled in the folds of her pant legs. She’d left the pepper spray in her bag, never thinking she’d need it. All she had were her hands and arms, so she made a fist in an attempt to strike the intruder, but her movements were clumsy—off—as she threw a wide punch, and then missed.

 

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