The Way You Look Tonight

by Richard Madeley

‘Police – Keys Killer hotline. You have information for us?’

  Tom took a deep breath.

  ‘You can say that again.’

  52

  Lee had barely driven out of the TV station’s parking lot in downtown Miami when the radio on his cruiser’s dash crackled into life. It was the sergeant he’d left in charge of the phone room back in Key West.

  He snatched the microphone from its holder. ‘Talk to me, Ben. What kind of response are we getting?’

  ‘Quantity – lowish,’ the voice replied. ‘Quality? Now there we’re cooking.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Almost no one so far responding to the sketches showing Woods in a beard or with black hair, sir. But that one of him as a blond bombshell with glasses? That’s really hitting the spot. We’ve had five calls already from people who are certain they’ve seen him in Key West but here’s the thing, sir – all the sightings are concentrated either on Duval or in that twinkie bar down past the Hog’s Breath, the Springfield Tavern. Three calls placing him there so far. Two were anonymous, for obvious reasons, I guess, but hold on to yourself, sir – one guy identified himself as the Tavern’s owner, one Thomas Bilson. He says he hired a barman answering the blond’s description on the very evening that we know Woods came ashore on the island. He’s been living in a room above the bar ever since. It’s got to be him, sir.’

  Lee silently punched the air in triumph, before saying as calmly as he could: ‘I agree. How many men have you sent over there?’

  ‘Six, sir. But I’ve told them to stay well back and keep the bar under observation.’

  ‘What? Why? Why aren’t they going straight in?’

  ‘Bilson says he sent Woods – who’s going under the name of Dennis Clancey, by the way – on a late lunch break at about four o’clock today and he’s not back yet. He’s surprised at that – says the guy’s usually a good timekeeper.’

  Lee’s elation began to fade. ‘How late is he?’

  ‘Should have been back there before happy hour – half past five at the latest. He’s almost an hour overdue now.’

  Lee nodded to himself before saying in a voice that failed to conceal his disappointment: ‘It’s what I was worried might happen. He’s seen the broadcast. Maybe he was in a bar somewhere with a TV. But it doesn’t signify. It’s only a matter of time, now.’

  He paused, thinking hard before continuing: ‘OK, here’s what I want you to do. Stay back from the Springfield Tavern until seven o’clock and if he hasn’t shown up by then, go in. Get a full statement from the owner and search Woods’s room. Meanwhile set up a roadblock where Route 1 joins the Key. He may steal a car or even hijack one.

  ‘If he takes a boat there aren’t nearly as many embarkation points as there are in Key Largo so we can probably stop him this time. Get some of the guys down to the Marina. I don’t want any boats leaving without us giving them the once-over first. Radio ALL departing boat registrations to the Coastguard cutter that’s been standing outside the main channel out to sea since yesterday. Send a couple of back-up launches to join them. Any boats we haven’t told them about are to be stopped, boarded and searched. Finally, get everyone else out on the streets, checking out likely spots. I’d start with the churches. They’re pretty quiet this time of night. But use your initiative. All clear on the above, Ben?’

  ‘Crystal. I’m on it, sir. What time d’you think you’ll get back?’

  ‘Close to ten tonight. But I’m on the radio. So much as a fly farts down there, I want to be told. Out.’

  It was still an hour before sunset but high cirrus clouds had moved in from the west, and Lee found himself driving under what his grandfather used to call a mackerel sky. He wondered if it might presage rain later.

  He went over the orders he’d just given. Had he missed anything? If so, he couldn’t think what it might be.

  Assuming Woods was still at large when he rolled back into Key West, he knew exactly the first person he was going to call.

  Stella. If he was missing something, she’d be the one to spot it.

  Of course, he was missing something, he reflected as he drove twenty-five over the limit through Islamorada.

  He missed Stella like hell.

  53

  The five customers who’d been locked inside the Springfield Tavern for the last forty-five minutes stopped complaining when Tom explained that all drinks were on the house until the police arrived and he felt it was safe to unbolt the doors.

  They’d all taken full advantage of his offer and were now mostly drunk or very drunk, so it was a relief when he heard a loud banging coming from outside and the shouted command: ‘Police! Open up!’

  The drunks were politely led out on to Duval and left to make their own way home.

  Back in the bar, Tom was now sweating profusely as the sergeant questioned him. He was always nervous around policemen – excepting his new boyfriend, of course; he’d had some pretty bad experiences in the past, always entirely down to his sexuality. Key West was the first place in his life where he felt mostly hassle-free from local law enforcement.

  He was dreading one question in particular and when it inevitably came, he could feel himself turning a beetroot red. That always happened when he prevaricated or lied, and he was about to do both now.

  ‘You say this man was a good worker and timekeeper,’ the sergeant was saying. ‘Why d’you think he makes an exception like this and disappears? Where might he have gone? Any ideas?’

  Oh God, this was awful, just awful. Denny – no, he must stop thinking of him as that – had disappeared because he, Tom, had passed on inside information. He might even go to jail because of it, and what about his poor boyfriend? Neither of them had meant any harm but what on earth was he supposed to say to this policeman, who was beginning to give him an increasingly puzzled look as the silence lengthened.

  ‘Why hasn’t he come back?’ he managed, with a pretence at an airiness he did not feel. ‘I’m sure I don’t know, sergeant . . . perhaps he was watching the TV news in some bar or other and saw those pictures of himself. That must be it.’

  Sergeant Ben Moss stared at the bar owner. He’d been a cop for more than twenty years and he knew evasion when he heard it. He’d learned that the blunt approach usually worked best.

  ‘OK, I’m gonna ask the question again, Mr Bilson, because I don’t think that was the straightest answer you have in you. Remember this is a multiple murder investigation and we can do this down at headquarters just as well as in your bar here, OK?’

  Tom trembled. ‘I’m sure there’s no need for—’

  ‘There’s no need for anything, sir, other than for you to answer my questions with the straight dope. So let’s try again . . . are you aware of any reason why the man we know as John Henry Woods didn’t return from his meal break this afternoon?’

  It was no good, he simply wasn’t built for this kind of thing. His head dropped forward as he answered dully: ‘Well . . . yes, yes, I suppose there is, now I come to think of it. You see, sergeant, I have a . . . a friend . . . a friend who I was with this afternoon enjoying a, er, private conversation in his apartment, and we were interrupted by a telephone call ordering him to return to . . . to return to . . . the building you’ve just threatened to take me to.’

  Moss raised his eyebrows. ‘Say what? The guy you were with is a cop?’

  ‘Er . . . yes, but please don’t ask me his name because that’s one thing I’m NOT going to tell you.’ Tom raised his head and looked defiantly at the other man. ‘I mean it. It’s a private friendship.’

  The sergeant stared evenly at the sweating man opposite. He could come back to the question of the cop’s identity later; it was what he might have said that mattered most right now.

  ‘OK, Tom, we can park that point if you like. What did the officer say to you about why he had to come back in? Take your time. Just tell me the truth.’

  The bar owner wiped the sweat from his eyes and forehead with the back of his ha
nd before continuing.

  ‘Well, he said it had something to do with the hunt for this guy it now turns out I’ve been harbouring here all this time . . . he didn’t know exactly what, though. But about an hour later he phoned me to apologise again for spoiling our, er, lunch, and said he was going to be busy this evening too. That’s when he told me about the artist’s sketches and the TV and the newspapers and all.’

  The sergeant nodded.

  ‘And you told Woods when you got back here. Did you also tell him what the sketches would look like?’

  Tom hung his head again. ‘Yes,’ he said miserably. ‘I’m sorry. I even teased him that one of the pictures was apparently going to show the killer with blond hair and glasses, just like he had. But how was I to know who he really was? And I must say he didn’t seem all that interested. He only asked a couple of questions and then wandered off for lunch. If he was alarmed, he certainly didn’t show it.’

  Ben Moss sighed. ‘Look, it’s OK. You’re right; you weren’t to know. But it’s a damn shame all the same. If you hadn’t said anything, we’d have him in the cells right now.’

  ‘I know . . . as I say, I’m sorry. Sergeant . . . do you think he’ll come back here?’

  The officer gave a short laugh as he stood up. ‘Are you kidding? Would you? Relax, Mr Bilson. The next time you see John Henry Woods he’ll be on TV being taken into the courthouse in cuffs and leg-irons. Stay here, please, I haven’t finished with you. I just have to radio my boss.’

  Lee pounded the steering column in frustration when Moss finished his account.

  ‘This is so frigging annoying! So he knew in advance he was going to be on the TV news tonight, did he? No wonder he disappeared in a puff of smoke. Jesus, Ben! When is this bastard’s luck going to run out? It’s like he has some fucked-up guardian angel over his shoulder, whispering in his ear every time we get close.’

  He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel a moment, then clicked the mic on again.

  ‘Have you made all those dispositions I ordered earlier?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘OK then, carry on questioning this Bilson guy and I’ll see you back at headquarters. I’m about an hour away now. Should’ve taken the chopper. But look, Ben, things just got a lot more complicated. If Woods had a coupla hours’ heads-up, he had just enough time to make some kind of plan. He won’t be skulking in the back of some dark bar or in the side-room of a church. He’ll have come up with something. He’s a clever bastard.

  ‘But I’m a clever bastard too. And I know someone who’s even cleverer than Woods and me put together. I’m gonna call them the second I get back.’

  54

  He glanced at the pretty blue china ashtray, its contents now overflowing onto the bedside table, and counted the number of butts.

  Seventeen. Almost a whole pack. What you might call a seventeen-fag plan. Eighteen, if you included the body in the cellar. He laughed inwardly at his own joke. He could be a pretty funny guy sometimes, not that people would know; he hadn’t told anyone a joke in his entire life. He’d never seen the point in trying to make another person laugh.

  Calmly he reviewed the strategy he’d worked out; a strategy he was reasonably confident would get his English rose down here to Key West. He knew from an interview this Foster guy had given to the Courier last week that she’d gone back to Massachusetts now that what they called ‘the killer’s profile’ had been established.

  And he had to give the kid credit for working out so much about him with so little to go on. She was smart as a whip. He ought to be angry with her but he wasn’t. In fact he was looking forward to spending time with her, and not just because of the way he’d decided he was going to kill her. They’d have a nice fireside chat first.

  He grinned when he remembered that dumb newspaper interview with the Fed; how he’d been so goddamned confident he’d have his man in days, if not hours. What a prick. He’d only got as close as he had because of the girl, although to be fair, he had admitted that to the reporter.

  Well, he’d see to it that this Foster guy would be asking for her help again soon. He couldn’t guarantee this new plan would work, that it would see the kid jumping on the next plane to Miami and coming down here to Key West, but he thought it had a better than even chance. And if at first you didn’t succeed . . . he’d only have to do this thing once more, he reckoned, for it to have the desired effect.

  And once she was down here? He’d already worked that out, in general terms at least. It would mean thinking on his feet a bit, but he’d always been good at that, hadn’t he? Remember that village in Korea . . . What the papers hadn’t reported the other day, because there was no way they could have known, was that he’d come up with the whole mercy-killing thing only after he’d walked into the place. He’d made a good case for it with the guys and led by example, blowing the brains out of an old peasant woman who genuinely was dying in agony, fun though that had been to watch. Later, he’d been surprised to discover that killing could be contagious. Some of the others had enjoyed it almost as much as he had.

  He dragged his thoughts back to the present. He accepted that this was it; that kidnapping and torturing the girl would be his final flourish. He still hadn’t decided whether he wanted to be arrested so he could gloat over his successes in a courtroom – he was pretty sure the finer details of what he’d accomplished would have some of the more lily-livered jurors throwing up or fainting, and lawyers bleating for adjournments and smelling-salts – but on the other hand he quite liked the idea of making a grand exit once he’d finished with the girl. He’d be going to the chair anyway so blowing his own brains out here in this house meant he’d stay in full control right up to the end.

  He’d have to think about it. No need to decide right now.

  He looked at the antique clock, ticking softly on a shelf next to the window that looked out at the condemned house across the street. The building was more or less invisible on this moonless night. Good. The darker the better for what he had planned later.

  Nearly eleven o’clock. It wouldn’t be safe for him to go outside for a while longer, even if he was in a fresh disguise, courtesy of the old fart’s wardrobe. The guy had obviously been into cross-dressing in a big way; there was a small but high-quality selection of dresses and wigs neatly stashed away next to his regular clothes, the ones he’d worn on his regular visits to the Springfield, where the sad-sack had invariably tried to make a clumsy pass at him. He’d always given him the brush-off but thank God he’d kept that phone number. He must have known somewhere in the back of his mind that he might need it.

  He yawned. He wanted to go to sleep, but he had work to do.

  He slid off the bed and stretched. Hopefully his dead host had some sort of toolkit somewhere. He didn’t need much stuff – a saw, a hammer and some nails would do.

  He pushed both hands under the mattress and heaved it up and away. Excellent. There were about twenty horizontal wooden slats that formed the base of the bed. He’d probably need about six of them.

  He dropped the mattress back and headed downstairs to the kitchen; he’d start the search for tools in there. With any luck he should have knocked up something pretty special for his English rose by the time he was ready to go outside into the darkness and roll out the first part of his plan.

  He yawned again. It was going to be a busy night.

  55

  By the time Lee had reached Key West and de-briefed his sergeant it was past midnight and too late to call Stella up at the Rockfairs.

  There had, of course, been no sightings of Woods, or the slightest indication of where he might be. Lee was as certain as he could be that his man was still in Key West – although a person-to-person call from J. Edgar Hoover, the gist of which was: ‘Let him get away a second time and you can mail me your letter of resignation along with your badge’, had hardly done wonders for his confidence. The old bastard. When did he last close a case?

  Sergeant Moss was
in the next room writing up his report. Lee found the click-clack of the typewriter strangely comforting at this time of night: a reminder that he was not alone here in the small hours.

  For the hundredth time since first arriving in Key West, he wandered over to the window and looked down along Duval. It was still pretty busy, but the hookers had mainly taken over from the beggars and buskers now. Lee wondered if they had an informal arrangement over shift patterns.

  He thought about what Moss had told him the bar owner had said. Woods, by the sound of it, had played the part of the persecuted homosexual on the lam to perfection. But how, Lee wanted to know, had he had dealt with the inevitable come-ons from other guys?

  ‘He’s a fly one, judging by what Bilson said,’ the sergeant replied. ‘When one of the other barmen made a move on him, Woods let him down easy. Explained that he he’d been pretty traumatised by the whole police sting operation on him up in Dallas and he’d currently lost his appetite for that kind of thing. He told all the guys working in the bar that he was in a sort of purdah. Bilson told me he had to look the word up. To be honest, sir, I’d never heard of it either. But Bilson said he thought the man he knew as Dennis Clancey punched above his weight, brains-wise.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘He says he had the impression he was unusually quick on the uptake. Well read, too. Has a copy of Milton’s Paradise Lost with him. Bilson said Woods used to take it with him on his meal breaks. He also came back once from the Hemingway Museum over on Whitehead Street with a bunch of the guy’s books he bought from the store there. Offered to lend Bilson one of them. A Farewell to Arms, I think he said.’

  Lee raised an eyebrow. ‘My favourite Hemingway, as it happens. Read any of his stuff, Ben?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Lee sighed. ‘I’m not sure that knowing Woods’s literary tastes helps us any. We already know he’s a clever bastard, don’t we? Maybe he quotes poetry to them while he’s killing them . . . sorry, Ben, that wasn’t remotely funny. It’s been a long day. But to get back to this other thing: we’re as sure as we can be that Woods didn’t form any kind of opportunistic relationship with another man to add to his cover? Maybe give him a bolthole to go to when the crap hit the fan? It’s possible he’s hiding out in some guy’s home somewhere, maybe killed him there and is sitting pretty while he works out his next move.’