Intermusings

by David Niall Wilson

  But he looked back at me too. There was something in the way he sized me up that I didn't like. He was a dangerous one. I'd have to watch out for him. The younger one, though, he might be fun.

  It was after nine when Martin shuffled into the precinct office. Tony looked up from behind his paper and said, "You look like shit, Marty."

  "Good morning to you too," Martin muttered, dropping into the worn seat behind his desk. He didn't need Tony telling him how he looked. He'd checked the rearview mirror before leaving the parking lot. The face that had peered back at him belonged to a Martin Zolotow ten or twenty years down the line. It was like looking through a window and finding your father looking back from the other side.

  There was a cup of cold coffee and a hardening donut on his desk that Tony'd left. Pushing the donut away, Martin took a long swallow of cold coffee. It was fast becoming a morning ritual. If he could keep from grimacing at Tony's coffee, awful even when it was hot, he could mask any other emotions that might reveal there was something beneath the legendary Zolo stone face.

  "Have you seen the morning paper yet?" Tony asked.

  "No."

  "Just as well. No sense making your morning any worse than it already is. Grodin's looking for you. Said something about you coming in on time for a change."

  "Grodin can kiss my ass. I've been working."

  Tony arched a critical eyebrow.

  "Your friend, the hooker—Kat was it? She lied to you."

  Tony surprised him. "I know. She doesn't live in that building and the phone number she gave me was bogus. I spoke with the landlord this morning. How did you know?"

  "I have my sources," Martin said. He'd intended it to come out sounding mysterious, but it sounded petty. It sounded exactly like what it was: withholding information from one's partner. But how could he tell Tony he'd learned it from the prostitute he'd been up with all night?

  Tony said nothing. But it was obvious from the look on his face that a small rift in trust had just developed between them.

  "Yesterday, when we were leaving," Martin said quickly, hoping to cover up, "I noticed she was fully dressed, carrying her purse, and had a coat over her arm. The other tenants had all been roused by our officers stomping about. She hardly looked like someone who'd stepped out of her apartment to see what was going on. I asked around. None of the local hookers knew anything about her."

  "She's not a hooker," said Tony.

  The statement came out sounding too much like a protest to Martin. Don't get attached to her, he wanted to warn the younger man, but he kept his mouth shut. "What prompted you to follow up on her?"

  Tony blushed.

  "I see," said Martin, and he might have said more, but Grodin's door opened at that moment.

  "Duck," Tony advised, but it was too late.

  "Zolo, in my office. Now!"

  Martin swallowed the last of his coffee, nearly grimacing at the clammy grounds that had been hiding on the bottom of the cup. "Can't imagine what he wants."

  "My guess would be that he's read this." Tony tossed him the newspaper.

  "Johnny the Cross?" I might have smiled if it hadn't been for the photograph accompanying the article. Vicki had been taken off the wall, but the coroner hadn't quite gotten her into the body bag when the photographer managed to slip past the cops and snap his shot. In newsprint black and white, Vicki was ghostly pale. Her blood was dark as midnight.

  The body of a young woman identified as Vicki Marsh was found today, dead in her East Broadway apartment. The body was severely mutilated, and had been crucified to the wall. Police speculate that the killer used a professional nail gun to perpetrate this last ghastly act before disappearing without a trace. Marsh, a known prostitute, is the third victim in a string of such grisly murders in the last two weeks . . .

  I scanned the rest of the article, but there was nothing in it that was of any help to me. I already knew more than the police were releasing, thanks to having been in the right place at the right time, but I was still drawing a blank.

  My last kill was nearly four weeks ago. I needed to find this Johnny the Cross soon, or someone else might suffer. Throwing the paper down on the motel room's ratty desk, I paced like a caged animal.

  It was time to take more direct action. I'd spent the last two weeks, ever since I'd read about the first killing and my senses had warned me of what was to come, walking the streets. I'd covered a lot of miles and attracted more than my usual share of gratuitous offers, but the killer had passed me by. The only thing the three victims seemed to have in common was that they lived on the lower east side and were hookers.

  I was beginning to feel trapped. The closer it got to my time, the more difficult catching the killer would be. That damn detective had gotten to me, despite my best efforts to put him out of my mind. Something about him called out to me, to my hunger. Hell, not something; plain and simple, it was his youthful, good looks. It had been nearly a month since Chastekind . . .

  Something had to happen soon. Impulsively, I reached for the phone and dialed information. I gave the operator the name I'd copied from the manager's apartment door in the complex where Vicki Marsh had been murdered. Johnny hunted hookers. If I wanted to find him, I needed to mingle with the hookers, live where they lived.

  "Hello?" The voice at the other end of the line was not a friendly one. It was a wary, insecure baritone.

  "My name is Kat. I was told you might have a furnished apartment for a . . . working girl."

  "I got a room," the voice cut in quickly. "Two hundred a week and ten percent of your business, hon. You pay the electric and the phone—if you want one—and the water's on me. First and last month up front. Take it or leave it."

  "I'll take it. Can I move in today?"

  "Suit yourself. But don't forget your money."

  Things in California were so direct and to the point. I hung up and started gathering my things, smiling. At least I was doing something. Leaving the key by the phone, I left the hotel with purposeful strides, wearing the outfit I'd planned for that night: short red mini-skirt, six inch stiletto pumps, fishnets—the works. My long dark hair was swept back over one shoulder. Dressed to kill. I was smiling as I moved down the cracked, dirty sidewalk and into the teeming masses of the downtown crowds. The sidewalk zombies parted before me, stirring in my wake, to stare, to lust, to crave what they thought they'd be willing to die for. Stupid mortals.

  Tony wasn't certain what drew him back to the crime scene; a hunch, he supposed. He didn't want to admit to himself that his real reason had long black hair and more than likely nothing to do with the case at hand.

  The place was just as seedy as he remembered it—maybe more so. He had more concentration to spare it without a naked body nailed to the wall. It had been easy enough to get the key to the room. The manager obviously wanted as little to do with the police as possible.

  He scanned the room quickly, aware that if there had been anything to find, forensics had it in a little baggy back at the station. It didn't matter. His mind told him there was something he was missing, and what else did he have to do but look for it?

  The chalk outline of the body clung to the wall like some sort of weirded-out religious symbol, and the too-small blood-stain was still visible, soaked thoroughly into the floor. Nothing new. He made a quick circuit of the main room, then wandered slowly through the bedroom, kitchen, and small bathroom. Nothing.

  The apartment looked like exactly what it was: a prostitute's office. Vicki Marsh probably didn't consider this shitty little apartment her home. Home was somewhere else. The three bedroom, two car garage, white-picket-fenced house her parents owned in the suburbs. The brownstone her Prince Charming would one day buy her. The penthouse she'd buy when she'd saved enough money turning tricks. . .

  With the exception of some really tacky, oil paintings in the living room, there was nothing personal in the apartment. Even Vicki's clothes looked faked, as if they'd all been bought for show rather than comfort.r />
  Shit, he thought, cursing his own hard-headedness. This is a fucking waste of time!

  He turned and headed back out into the hall, hands jammed tightly into his pockets. Slamming the door closed behind him, he nearly ran over the woman unlocking the next apartment.

  "Excuse me, I —"

  It was her. He stopped cold, partly in shock and partly in appreciation. She was even more gorgeous than he remembered, decked out in a short skirt and heels.

  "Detective Saucier," she said, smiling seductively. "I was wondering when I'd see you again."

  Something about her made the hair on his arms and scalp stand on end. It was all that he could do not to take a step forward and embrace her. Was it some kind of perfume? Damn!

  "I . . I thought you didn't live here," he finally managed to stammer. "The landlord said . . ."

  "Technically," she said, pushing her door open, "I only told you I was staying here. But now I live here. Will you come in?"

  He knew he shouldn't. He had a job to do, and those long, supple legs and wide cat eyes hadn't a damn thing to do with it. But . . . he followed her in silence.

  "I would like to ask you a few questions," he said lamely, a pretense of keeping their encounter on a professional level.

  She was having none of it. As he turned to shut the door behind them, she moved up behind him, close behind him. "You must be a very brave man, Detective Saucier, chasing around all over town after serial killers . . . very scary."

  Lost in her voice and the softness of her embrace, he found it difficult to believe that anything frightened her. Christ, she frightened him.

  "I should go," he said weakly, making no move to do so. "I'm still on duty, and Marty will be looking for me."

  "Your partner is a big man," she almost purred, running her tongue up the side of his neck. "He can handle himself."

  Shit, he thought, and wrenched himself free. "I'm sorry, Miss . . . Kat? It's just not the right time." He was backing away fast, almost certain that if she got her hands on him again the battle would be lost. "I really have to get back to work. Maybe some other time—tonight?"

  She looked hot, and she looked mad, and he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted a woman in his life. He could see the sheen of sweat coating her arms and dampening the strands of hair along her throat. She seemed to almost be panting. Christ, he thought. She is un-fucking-believable!

  He turned, flipping the door open and staggering down the hall. Her voice floated out after him, teasing him. "Tonight it'll be then. Nine o'clock. Don't let me down, Detective."

  "Tony." He croaked out as he went. "My name is Tony."

  Then he was out in the fresher air of the street, and his whirling thoughts began to settle. He glanced at his watch and saw that he had exactly fifteen minutes to meet Martin downtown. "What the hell was I thinking?" he asked himself. "I must be losing my mind over all this. Give me some finger paints and lock me away in a padded room somewhere."

  And then he realized what forensics had missed in Vicki Marsh's room.

  It's reached the point where I can't control it. A week, two, maybe even three after a kill and I could probably go so far as to sleep with Tony Saucier and not harm a hair on his head. Four weeks though. . .

  So strong was my desire to have him, I could taste the blood flowing just beneath the surface of his skin. The warmth of his body when I molded myself against his back was like a kindred fire.

  I almost followed him out of the building, but it had begun to rain. My old enemy whispered on the sidewalks, gurgled through the rain gutters, hissed against the windowpane. Come outside and play, Katherine. Come outside and die. Jesus, it never rains in Southern California—isn't that what they say?

  Please let the rain end before nine.

  When Tony met Martin for lunch, he was carrying a painting wrapped in rain-drenched newspaper. Martin glanced at the clock hanging over the counter. "You're late."

  Tony shrugged. "Buy me a new watch for Christmas, Marty."

  "I'd have to teach you to tell time first. What's this? You collecting art now?"

  "This is what is commonly referred to as a clue."

  "How's that?"

  "First I want you to note the artist's signature here in the corner."

  As Tony pulled away the newspaper to reveal the painting, Martin frowned. He didn't need to see the artist's signature. He recognized the painting. Vicki Marsh had been painting her wretched abstracts when Martin had been calling on her. She'd told him once that painting served as a catharsis for her fears. "It's from Marsh's apartment," Martin acknowledged, "but how is it a clue?"

  "You have no appreciation for modern art, Marty. It's an abstract."

  "It's a colorful piece of garbage."

  Tony shook his head. "Use your imagination.

  "I don't —" But he did. The silver cylinder down front could be a metal bucket, stainless steel perhaps. The flesh-toned, tapering limbs radiating out from the center of the painting could be a woman's legs. The hunched white blur standing to one side, a doctor . . . the crimson mess running from the painting's dead center . . .

  "Got it?" Tony asked.

  Martin knew the fact that he did was written plainly on his face. He wiped at his lips and tried to recover his shields. He was slipping. What with Grodin riding his ass and women he knew turning up eviscerated . . .

  The painting was definitely a clue. It fit. The abortion-like M.O. The neat pile of viscera, as if it had first been scraped into a bucket. It fit like a glove.

  "You okay, Marty?"

  He didn't know Vicki'd had an abortion. It must have terrified her, else why the painting? God, he hoped the child hadn't been his.

  "Marty?"

  "This afternoon you find out where the local prostitutes go for abortions."

  "First thing after lunch."

  "And we find out if the other victims had abortions."

  "Okay." Tony caught his partner by the forearm. "You should tell me everything, partner."

  Martin's beeper went off. He checked the message window. "Shit. It's Grodin." Leaving the meal he'd long since lost interest in, Martin went to use the phone. He was only on the phone for a minute. When he returned to the table, his face was ashen and he looked as if he might bolt and run.

  "What is it?" Tony asked.

  "Johnny the Cross struck again."

  "Shit! So soon? We'd better—wait. What aren't you telling me, Marty? What's wrong?"

  Martin looked away, his eyes glazed with terror and confusion. There comes a time, he knew, when the shields aren't enough. There comes a time when you have to talk to someone or drown in it. "The victim . . . a prostitute . . . I was with her all night."

  Martin Zolotow's mind was whirling at breakneck speed, even as he forced himself to drive safely through the downpour. His memories of the previous night were still vivid, still warm —

  Except he could not remember leaving.

  As they approached the seedy live-in motel where Tanya had lived, he felt those memories moving on a collision course with cold reality. He knew full well what they would find; in the logical forefront of his mind the image was already set. It was in the recesses of his mind, the shadows, that he could not equate Tanya with the naked, crucified nightmare he was about to face.

  "Christ, Zolo," Tony was saying, "How long were you there? When did you leave?"

  Martin didn't answer. Tony was a good kid, probably make a good detective one day as well, but he was a new partner. Martin wanted to get all the facts straight in his own mind before he answered anyone's questions. This was a sticky business, and he could see no way out of it that wasn't wading straight through the muck.

  He'd been with Tanya the entire night—and awake for most of it. They'd had a bottle of wine, and . . . best not to think about the rest. He thought maybe he'd left for his own apartment on the other side of town at about 8:00 AM. If so, he would have had just enough time to change his clothes, run a comb through his hair, and get down to the
station—an hour late—where his memory hole ended.

  The rest of the day was clear to him. Grodin had chewed on his ass about the newspaper story, their lack of clues, paperwork that should have been done last night and wasn't . . . basically every and any thing the old bastard could dream up that might remotely be Martin's fault. Tony'd asked to go over Marsh's apartment one more time while Martin had spent the morning going over file after file of possible suspects, combing through the evidence and lab reports from the three earlier murders. Then he'd met Tony for lunch.

  They parked outside the security perimeter and pushed their way past the lab boys and patrolmen. Despite the rain, there was a good-sized crowd of spectators milling about as well, but the blue-shirts were doing a pretty good job of keeping them back and out of the way. The reporters were out in force too. Cursing, Martin and Tony lowered their eyes and raised their arms to fend off the onslaught of questions and popping flash-bulbs.

  The smell of blood hit them as soon as they neared the door to the room. Martin's mind was walking the hall again the night before, hoping—no, fucking praying—that it was all a macabre joke, that Tanya would be laying inside, kicked back on the bed with that cynical smile of hers and a Marlboro light dangling from her lips.

  No such luck.

  She hung just as the last one had, and the one before, and the one before, with one exception. This time the killer had taken her long, lustrous hair, knotting it and pulling it above her head, and had driven a nail through the knot. Her eyes were staring straight at them when they came through the door. Tony averted his own eyes quickly, but Martin was caught in that accusatory gaze.

  Blood had dripped from her lips, running in a tattooed river down her throat to trickle across the still firm flesh of her breasts. He remembered how they'd felt, remembered the taste of those lips. He remembered those eyes, full of expressive humor and companionship.

  "Zolo, snap out of it, man!"

  He felt Tony's hand on his shoulder, and he shook himself free of the daze. His mind was a void. All he could think was that that was the second time Tony'd used his nickname. He'd hoped to remain "Marty" to his new partner. Zolo was someone else. Zolo was a young detective who'd been able to out think the criminals. A crime fighter who was always one step ahead.