“Well, the whore and the motel guy joked a little, he says, while he was makin’ change. Martinez says when he teased her about the C-note, her comment was, ‘Yeah, not bad for an old broad, huh?’”
I mulled that one over. “I thought I remembered Morgan only being in her thirties.”
“Yeah, well, thirty-eight. But most of the gals cruising Times Square lately are teeny-boppers. Morgan’s one of the older ones on the street these days. She also had plenty of tattoos on her.”
“Tattoos? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well, it’s a funny thing,” Parker said, rocking back in his chair again, hands behind head. “All three of the whores that got it had tattoos. And the Penniston dame had some writing on her palm. A code or somethin’. Burke chased that writin’ all over the place, but he got nowhere with it.”
I frowned at him. “What do you mean, writing on her palm?”
“Just what I said. I saw the corpse, and I got pictures of it. There was something written in ink on the left palm.” I opened my mouth to ask the obvious question, but Parker anticipated me.
“No, we don’t know who wrote it. But some of us think that mighta been the killer’s way of makin’ up for her lack of tattoos. Like maybe the psycho’s got a tattoo fetish.”
I was interested. “Anything come of it?”
Parker shook his head glumly. “Not yet. Oh, Kessler went wild over it — for a while. He and Blake had us goin’ round and round on it. What did it mean, did it have any connection with the tattoos on the other three? The tattoo thing got a play around here for a couple days but didn’t seem to get anybody nowhere.”
I returned to my first reaction. “And you don’t even have a clue whether the writing on the palm was done by Penniston, her killer or someone else?”
He grinned. “All the above, Davey.” He dropped the grin and shook his head soberly. “We don’t know. We know that Penniston was right-handed, so the way it’s written, on her left hand, it coulda been written by her. But Blake don’t think so. His theory is the killer wrote it, but wrote it to try to make us think she did. To throw us off, I guess. I never figured that one out.
“Blake showed it to a writin’ expert, along with some samples of her writin’ on paper. Expert couldn’t say. Mighta been, mighta not. Hard to tell, writin’ on skin. And it’s just a word was all it was.” His face suddenly lit up. Glancing quickly in both directions, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper.
“Shit, here it is. Wanna see a picture a’ the lady’s hand? And remember — you never saw it.”
He flicked the sheet across the desk. It was a grainy 8½-by-11-inch photostat. Left hand, palm up — from just above the wrist to the fingertips. The entire palm was visible in the center of the picture. The detail was good: veins and hair follicles were faintly visible in the wrist. And, handwritten on the palm, aimed diagonally at the base of the little finger was some writing, smudged and faint. I held it up to the light and studied it. It looked like four letters: G O S T.
That’s what it looked like. It wasn’t easy to read, with the ink smudged and the imperfections of the photostat. I looked at Parker. “Shoot me a copy of it?”
He snorted. “You kiddin?” He extended his hand. “Give it back. I could get my ass in a wringer.”
Joe didn’t change expression as he put the paper carefully back in the shallow desk drawer. He got to his feet. “’Scuse me a minute, Davey. Gotta take a leak.” He turned and headed for the men’s room just outside the squad room door.
I scoped the room to double-check I was alone and wasted no time getting the photocopy from Parker’s drawer and heading to the Xerox machine on the west wall. Fortunately, it was turned on, so I didn’t have to wait for it to warm up. Inside thirty seconds, Parker’s copy was back in his desk drawer and mine was in my breast pocket, nicely folded.
Parker came back avoiding my eye. But dammed if he didn’t open the drawer to make sure his copy was right where he’d left it.
“Anything else you can tell me?” I asked.
“Maybe. Besides the tattoos, the other thing we’ve been running around on is the earrings. All four of the victims had pierced ears. All four lost their earrings. But Penniston is the only one without ripped ear lobes. Also the only one not a whore. So what does it mean?”
“I’ll bite,” I said. “Tell me. Maybe Penniston wasn’t wearing earrings that night?”
“Maybe,” Parker allowed. “But she had them on earlier in the evening. We know that. But what I think is, uh, the worst thing the Mets could do is trade Hojo. He’s the only real slugger they’ve got left with any consistency.”
I stared at him. “Hojo? What the hell are you talking about? What does Hojo —?” I shut up. Something in Joe’s expression — make that lack of expression — told me the squad room now contained more bodies than just Joe’s and mine. And I had a funny feeling the third one was inhabited by Inspector Kessler.
A hint of perspiration began to form just below my hairline. If my feeling was right, Kessler had missed nailing me red-handed at the copy machine by just forty-five seconds. The results of that would have been disastrous for Parker and not too hot for me.
Riding over me in louder, argumentative tones, Parker continued. “But if we can trade Viola for a proven slugger like Clark, it’s fat city, baby.”
Joe looked up, over my shoulder. “Ain’t that right, Inspector?” I turned casually.
It was Kessler and he was curt. “If you gentlemen are discussing the Mets again, count me out. I have no interest in that team. Or in anything else related to baseball. Hello, Davey.”
Kessler’s dark brown eyes showed both curiosity and suspicion. His pointed beard was as well trimmed as always, but had a little more salt and a little less pepper to it than the last time I’d seen it. In a year or two it would be completely white. But his head retained its luxuriant crop of dark hair, only a trace of gray around the temples. As usual for a Saturday, he was casually dressed in sweater and tie.
I got up and shook his small, well-manicured hand. “Hey!” I told him. “You’ve got to quit pushing my man Joe so hard. Saturdays, yet! I thought I trained him better than that.”
Kessler looked up at me with a mock scowl. “Yes, you trained him all right, Davey. He’s got every bad habit you ever had. I’ve given him a few good ones to try to overcome what you taught him.” The inspector held my eye. “I trust you haven’t been trying to inveigle some departmental information out of Sergeant Parker, Davey. That would violate regulations. As you know.”
Parker involuntarily looked down to be sure his desk drawer was closed. Kessler’s eyes seemed to pick it up. He’s a hard man to fool. I tried to cover.
“Hell, Inspector, if I’d known writing reports was the way to get ahead here, I’d have done that instead of apprehending perpetrators. Maybe that would’ve kept me from getting my ass fired.”
Kessler reddened and stroked his beard. I’d never used the dreaded F-word in his presence before. He opened his mouth, probably with a sharp reply, then closed it. A careful man. When he did speak, it was calmly.
“Well. You didn’t come over here to talk about old times, Davey. And we’re all three busy people. Let’s get out of Joe’s hair.” Gesturing for me to follow, he spun on his heel and headed for his office.
I trailed after him, but not before mouthing a later to Joe. He winked at me, then scowled at his typewriter. He hates writing reports.
10
“Okay, Davey, close the door, sit down and get to the point,” the inspector said as we entered his office.
I didn’t obey. I was too busy scowling at something — the something being Lieutenant Charlie Blake slouched in a chair and sneering up at me. I turned to Kessler and opened my mouth to complain. But he beat me to the punch, as he settled in behind his big desk.
“I said sit down, Davey. I’ve, um, asked Charlie to join us, since he’s handling the Fanning matter.” The inspector look
ed nervously from Blake to me while he shuffled a few papers. Trouble was, he didn’t keep enough loose papers on his desk to make it believable.
Blake was loving it. “Got yourself another criminal to protect, Davey?” He looked at Kessler. “Maybe you and I should get ourselves fired, Inspector. Then we could see how it feels to make lots of money, finagling perps out of jail.”
His sneer broadened. “What’s the matter, Davey? You don’t get enough religious nuts over there on Thirty-seventh Street? You have to go out and dig ’em up as clients?”
I grinned and took a step toward him. I was studying the point on his jaw where a short right cross might make the biggest impression. Kessler must have guessed what I had in mind.
“I didn’t invite you two birds in here to start a fight. Davey’s got a legitimate interest in this case, Charlie, so never mind the extraneous comments. Davey! Sit!”
I took a breath and pulled a chair up next to Blake’s. I hate to admit it, but he’s not really that bad-looking. About my height and weight, and a couple years older, he keeps himself in shape; always has, going back to when we were rookies together. His sandy hair looked as full as ever, though I’m not particularly fond of the lacquered spray-on look. Charlie wore it that way back when it was fashionable and still does, now that it’s not. My theory is, a guy that spends that much time on his hair is telling the world he hasn’t got much else to offer. In Blake’s case, that’s definitely true.
At the moment he had the same triumphant glint in his eye that he gets when he’s about to arrest his favorite felon, namely me. That’s happened twice. Both were trumped up and later exploded in his face, leading to reprimands — once from the commissioner himself — but he’d enjoyed himself for a while. Currently he had nothing on me that I knew of, making me wonder what could have him feeling so good.
I sat down and tried a pleasant tone of voice. “How are you, Charlie? From the look on your face, you’ve got a surprise for me. Anything you can tell me about?”
Blake gave me his own version of a grin, as unpleasant as I could have wanted it.
“Yeah. The inspector and I have a friendly message for you, Davey: quit wasting your time on Fanning. Guy’s loony, a religious fanatic, certifiable psycho. He did all four of ’em and we can prove it. Stick with him, boy, and you’ll wind up wishing you hadn’t. Right, Inspector?”
Kessler was nodding as he tamped tobacco into his pipe. He didn’t speak till he had the pipe going to his satisfaction.
“Charlie’s right, Davey,” he finally said, sending some white smoke in the general direction of the ceiling. “We’ve had a breakthrough just this morning. We’ve now got plenty to go to the grand jury with, probably enough for a conviction.” He glanced at Blake and added, “Though we’re certainly continuing our search for more evidence. Right, Lieutenant?”
Blake nodded sourly, probably resenting the edge in Kessler’s voice. Sounded like they’d had a go-round over whether to keep looking for more evidence. Charlie’s been known to quit looking for hard evidence once he’s got enough to convince himself.
I wondered what they had. Kessler was obviously impressed by it and he doesn’t impress easily. I suddenly remembered the photostat in my breast pocket and wondered if a word on a dead woman’s hand had anything to do with Kessler’s breakthrough.
“Fran Wilson’s on her way over here,” Kessler went on. “We’re going to fill her in. You’ll probably hear about it when you talk with Baker. Fran wouldn’t want us to tell the defendant or his counsel about it till she has a chance to review it. I’m sure she’ll give Baker a call this evening and tell him all about it.
“But take our advice, Davey. Don’t get involved with this one. You don’t want to be associated with a guy like Fanning. Probably strikes you as a nice guy — just an innocent hick from Oklahoma. Well, he’s not. He’s an extremely dangerous psychopath. He’s murdered four women and he’ll do it again if we don’t put him away.”
I studied Kessler’s face for a moment, then Blake’s. They damn sure had something. That was clear from their expressions, Kessler’s soberly satisfied, Blake’s gloating. I couldn’t recall when I’d ever seen Kessler so sure of himself. His idea that he now had enough evidence to get a conviction was disquieting. He doesn’t say things like that lightly.
What worried me even more was Blake’s presence — in the case, and in this room right now — and what that meant. It was Kessler’s way of telling me I’d get no cooperation on this one. In the McClain case, he’d gone so far as to let me go through their files at one point, much to Blake’s disgust. Blake sitting in today told me there was no way that was going to happen this time.
All in all, the Fanning case looked to be closed before it ever got opened. Well, you can’t win ’em all — but I wasn’t ready to give up yet. I tried a little stubbornness.
“Look, Inspector. You just said Fran’ll tell Baker right away, and you know I’m working with him. What’ve you got to lose by telling me what you’ve got? It’s obviously big or you wouldn’t be —”
I stopped for two reasons. One, Kessler’s expression told me I was getting nowhere. Two, there was a tap on the door, and Fran Wilson entered. I got to my feet, and Blake reluctantly followed suit. Kessler stayed seated, though he smiled and nodded at Fran.
She looked terrific, even better than the last time I’d seen her, maybe two years before. Fran’s real little. The top of her head fits right under my chin when we dance, which is why we never went dancing much. And she’s extremely — well, stacked is the only word that comes to mind. She was wearing a nicely fitted burnt orange suit that went well with her dark brown hair. Her eyes opened wide with surprise when she saw me.
“Well, Mr. Goldman!” she said, with a grin that produced a dimple I’d almost forgotten she had. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” She gave me her hand in a warm and extended handshake, and didn’t seem to mind my caressing it for a moment with my other hand. Blake made a noise of disgust. We ignored him.
She finally nodded at him matter-of-factly, while I pulled up another chair. She sat down and, as she did so, Kessler rose. All the ups and downs were making Kessler’s office feel like a Punch-and-Judy show. But Kessler wasn’t clowning. He gave me a significant look.
“You’ll have to excuse us, Davey. We have things to discuss. In private.”
So I was bounced. “Watch these guys, Fran,” I told her. “They think they’ve got something airtight on Fanning. So airtight, they’re afraid to tell me what it is, afraid I’ll tear it apart. Don’t trust them, friend.”
“And I suppose I can trust you, Davey?” Her eyes pinned me.
“Hey, have I ever given you reason not to? I mean, have you —? All right, all right, don’t answer that. But the least you could do is give me one more chance.” She didn’t smile. Kessler cleared his throat.
“Okay, Inspector,” I said hastily. “I’m on my way.”
I closed the door behind me and slipped into my topcoat, thinking hard. Not about Fanning. On Fanning I had nothing to think about till I knew what Kessler had. No, about Fran: how was I going to get her back on my short list? She looked scrumptious.
11
Kessler and Blake hadn’t been blowing smoke. What they had on Fanning was every bit as scary as they’d hinted, I learned as soon as I got Baker on the phone.
“Yeah, Davey. Glad you called. Just got off the phone with Fran — said she saw you, by the way. She sounded — well, I don’t know. Interested. In you. Anything going on there?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I said. “I’d like to find out. She looks great, I’ll tell you that.”
“No argument there,” Baker chuckled. He cleared his throat and got serious. “Well, get your mind off her bod now, friend, because she’s after Fanning and loaded for bear. Thanks to Kessler. Well, actually, thanks to Blake. I got to tell you, Blake really pulled one off. Helluva job, I’ve got to admit. You know, I now see why you’ve always considered Blake such
a genius.”
I got short with him. A little of Baker’s sarcasm goes a long way. “Yeah, yeah, the guy’s a rocket scientist, we all know that. Get to it, Davis. I haven’t got all night.”
“A little touchy, are we?” Baker chuckled nastily. “All right, here goes. And I hope you’re sitting down.” He took a breath.
“See, all along Blake’s had the idea that the wife knew something she wasn’t telling. I mean Fanning’s wife. Certain questions seemed to frighten her. Specifically the ones about where her hubby was on the Friday nights that the murders were committed.
“She’d been sticking to it that Fanning was telling the truth when he told them he was home in bed with her. But she was giving Blake clear signals she was lying, or at least not telling everything she knew. Blake also noticed that that’s where Jerry really blew the lie detector test. I’ve seen it, by the way, and Blake’s right. The polygraph guy asks Jerry, ‘Did you at any time on the nights of blah, blah leave your residence for any reason?’ When Jerry says no, every squiggle on the sheet heads straight for the moon. Damn chart looks like a punk rocker’s hairdo.
“So this morning Kessler and Blake stage a little impromptu drama for an audience of one: Mrs. Ida Mae Fanning. As an ex-cop, you’re going to love this one, Davey. Blake’s interrogating her on some minor item and Kessler comes storming in.” Baker went into his Kessler voice, which he does superbly. “Says, ‘Okay, that’s it. Mrs. Fanning, your husband just told us the truth.’
“Well, little Ida Mae looks stunned. So Kessler keeps the pressure on. “That’s right, Mrs. Fanning. Now we know where your husband went on those Friday nights. Would you care to change your story before we start perjury proceedings?’”
Baker sighed mournfully. “I guess you can’t blame the poor little broad too much. She’s young, uneducated, scared. Stranger in town, husband’s in jail. And here’s this nice sympathetic policeman — no, two nice sympathetic policemen, both just trying to help. So she starts bawling and telling them how relieved she feels not to have to lie about it any more.
The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2) Page 6