by Tami Hoag
Bergen was getting red in the face. “Stop calling her that!”
“Have a seat, Mr. Bergen,” Dawes said, back to being Miss Manners. “Clear this up for us. If you haven’t done anything wrong, there shouldn’t be any problem doing that.”
Bergen sat down, hooking the heel of one cowboy boot over the rung of the chair. He leaned an elbow on his knee and looked away, nibbling on his thumbnail like a rat grooming itself.
“Can you tell us where you were Friday evening?” Dawes asked.
“I thought I wasn’t a suspect.”
“We’re trying to corroborate the statements of a third party.”
“I was out,” he said. “On the town. Like always when I’m here.”
“You’re not a permanent resident of the city?”
“It’s too fucking cold.”
“Where do you live?”
“L.A. Encino.”
The San Fernando Valley. Smut capital of America. Kovac had read it in a magazine. Hard-core porn movies were routinely made in rented houses in otherwise normal family neighborhoods.
Picturing Long Donny Bergen there brought a whole new meaning to “boy next door.”
“Yeah, look,” Kovac said. “This is all nice and chatty, and I’m sure you’d be an interesting person to talk to, if I didn’t happen to think you’re a maggot on the asshole of life. But let’s cut to the chase, Junior.
“We know you popped into the lobby bar at the Marquette Friday night to meet up with Sis and the gang. What was that about?”
“It wasn’t about anything,” Bergen said, belligerent. “So I stopped to have a drink with my sister. So what?”
“Where were you before that?”
“At my apartment, getting ready to go out.”
“Was anyone there with you?”
Bergen turned to the lieutenant again. “How is this supposed to square someone else’s story? I think it sounds like you’re trying to pin something on me.”
“Knowing if a particular someone was with you will be important to that other person,” Dawes explained. It was a lie, of course, but that didn’t matter. They were under no obligation to tell the truth during the course of an interview; only the interviewee risked a penalty for lying.
Bergen narrowed his eyes. “Who?”
Dumb as a post, this kid, Kovac thought. Good thing for him he had other talents.
“We can’t tell you that, Donny,” Kovac said. “If we tell you, you’ll decide what story you want to tell, depending if you like this person or hate them.”
Bergen turned that puzzle over and over in his narrow little head.
“That means you have to tell us the truth,” Dawes said.
He frowned at that, clearly thinking he was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.
“What’s the matter?” Kovac asked. “Did you have some underage girl there with you?”
“No! I don’t need to do underage girls.”
Kovac gave his crocodile smile. “That’s not about need, though, is it, Junior?”
“I was alone.”
“Between six and seven,” Dawes specified. “You were home alone.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Did anybody see you leave the building?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“You live in California,” Kovac said, “but you keep an apartment here. You must be here a lot.”
“My manager says it’s a good investment.”
“What do you do with it when you’re not around? Rent it out?”
“What’s the difference?”
Kovac shrugged. “Just curious.”
“Did you speak with your sister on the phone Friday afternoon?” Dawes asked.
“Yeah. Three, three-thirty. She asked me if I wanted to stop by the hotel for a drink.”
“Do you happen to know if David Moore was with her at the time?”
“I guess he was.”
“How well do you know him?” Kovac asked.
“We don’t hang out. Except for the fact this one has bucks, I usually don’t like my sister’s taste in men.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Through Eddie. A year, year and a half ago.”
“Eddie?” Dawes asked.
“Yeah. Eddie Ivors. I know Eddie through the business. He introduced me to Dave.”
“Through the triple-X movie business?” Kovac said.
“Yeah.” Bergen gave a little laugh and a smirk. “Everybody thinks Eddie made his money with theaters. Eddie made his money in porn and used the money to buy the theaters. Mr. Respectable Businessman.”
“And David Moore? How was he connected to Ivors?” Kovac asked, his blood pressure rising again. David Moore, the critically acclaimed documentary filmmaker. Kovac knew what Bergen was going to say before he said it.
“He’s into it. He’s directed some stuff for Eddie. Hard-core.”
Kovac shoved his chair back from the table so fast, it tipped over as he stood up. Donny Bergen cringed and cowered. Lieutenant Dawes jumped and twisted around to give him her full attention. Kovac was barely aware of either of them.
That piece-of-shit, rat bastard.
He could see David Moore’s photograph from his Web site, the smug, superior artiste. He wasn’t any better than a pimp, no, worse than a pimp. He sopped up money making filth, and still lived off his wife.
That meant he had bank accounts no one knew about. Greedy fool. He had money of his own, but he paid for his mistress out of the family funds. Un-fucking-believable.
Kovac started to rub his temples and pace back and forth in front of the door.
Dawes looked at him cautiously. “Are you all right, Detective? Do you need to step out?”
Before Kovac could answer, someone banged on the door. Elwood stuck his head into the room.
He directed himself to Kovac in a hushed voice. “I think I might have found Stan Dempsey’s hidey-hole.”
56
THE BOTTOM DROPPED out of Carey’s stomach. She felt the blood drain from her head to her feet.
Lucy’s baby photo in the silver frame. The black-and-white picture of Carey’s graduation from law school, her father gazing at her with unmistakable pride. These were the photographs she kept on the nightstand beside her bed at home.
She looked around the room again, slowly, recognition dawning with a sickening surety. Her champagne bucket. Her wineglasses. Her pillows. Her blankets. Karl Dahl had looted her home, taking things he thought she might want to have with her.
God help me.
“I even brung you some clothes,” Karl said, pointing to where he had hung them on an old hook sticking out of a crumbling wall. Dresses. Lingerie.
He meant for her to stay. He seemed to think she should be happy and grateful for the honor.
“You’re cold,” Karl said. “You should have a wrap.”
The perfect host. The scene was so incredibly surreal, it was difficult to believe it was really happening. Karl Dahl stood before her, blood all over the left side of his face and neck, bald-headed, wearing women’s makeup, wearing women’s clothes. He hadn’t said one word about what she had done to his face. It was almost as if he didn’t notice it.
The gold chenille throw had come from the love seat in her den. David had used it for a blanket Friday night. It smelled like cigar smoke and gin and a woman’s cloying perfume. Carey wanted to throw it away from her as if it were a snake, but Karl wrapped it carefully around her shoulders.
“Please, sit down,” he said, guiding her toward the only chair in the room, a cheap plastic lawn chair that had seen better days a decade past.
The chair was rusted and filthy; it was difficult to tell what color the plastic tubing might have been back when. It was the kind of chair she remembered from her teen years. She and all her girlfriends had had the lounge version, because you could make it lie completely flat, making it perfect for sunbathing.
In a brief flash she saw he
rself and Sandy Butler flat on their bellies on the chairs in her backyard, the radio blasting. They had been so innocent.
“I really should go, Karl,” she said. “Not that I don’t appreciate all you’ve done, but I need to go home for my daughter. She’ll be afraid, wondering where I’ve gone.”
Karl frowned at that, but he didn’t say anything as he dug through a couple of grocery bags, pulling out food that had probably come from Carey’s kitchen.
“She’s all right, isn’t she, Karl?” Carey asked, almost more afraid of knowing than not knowing.
He didn’t answer. His brow furrowed as he opened a box of Triscuits.
“Please, tell me she’s all right, Karl.”
Without even glancing at her, he got out a summer sausage that already had a third of it missing, and a knife that had come from the block on the counter just to the right of her stove.
The sense of dread in Carey’s chest was so heavy she could hardly breathe.
“Please, Karl…” she said, unable to keep the anxiety from her voice.
Karl stood suddenly and pointed at her with the knife. “You don’t have her no more,” he said angrily. “You’re with me now.”
Carey felt everything crumble inside her. She put her hands over her face and began to cry as silently as she could. He had killed her daughter. Her sweet, innocent child, who would never have been able to identify him even if she had seen him.
What had he done to her?
Again the Haas murder scene flashed through her memory.
It was too much. She rested her elbows on her thighs and rocked herself as she began to sob.
Her daughter was dead because of her, because of this lunatic killer who believed she had championed his cause. She wanted to die. She wanted Karl Dahl to come to her and slit her throat and be done with it. She rocked herself harder, keening.
“I didn’t mean that,” Karl said irritably. “I didn’t mean she’s dead.”
He came and knelt beside the chair, putting a hand on her arm.
“Please don’t cry so, Carey,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean for you to cry. You’re my angel.”
“Oh, my God,” Carey mumbled behind her hands.
“It’s just that you’re with me now,” he explained. “You’re with me. You’re my angel.”
“Please stop saying that,” Carey said, her voice trembling. “The police will be looking for me, you know.”
“That don’t matter,” Karl said, matter-of-fact. “They got no idea where you are.”
“You’ll go to prison for the rest of your life if you hurt me. If you let me go-”
“They gotta catch me first,” Karl snapped. “And if they catch me, I’ll go to prison for the rest of my sorry life no matter what. Now, I don’t want to hear no more about it.”
He went to another grocery bag and pulled out one of David’s exotic beers.
For Christmas the year before, Carey had signed him up for the Beer of the Month Club. That was the only thing she’d given him he hadn’t had some complaint about.
The memory of a better Christmas was the two of them the second Christmas after they had married. They were having a party. Mistletoe had made the rounds, courtesy of one of their friends. She saw David laughing, trim and fit and handsome; herself laughing too, leaning against him with her hand on the flat of his belly. He was holding a poinsettia over his head and had told her that the poinsettia-being that much larger than mistletoe-meant they had to go upstairs and make a baby. And so they had, after their guests had gone home. They had been so happy.
“You want something to drink?” Karl asked.
Carey just stared at him.
He brought her a bottle of Fiji water and a couple of Triscuits with summer sausage. Hors d’oeuvres. She took a sip of the water. It went down like a rock in her aching throat. She shook her head at the food.
She probably should have eaten it. She hadn’t had a decent meal in three days. She needed strength if she was going to get out of this mess. But the idea of food made her want to gag.
She pulled the chenille throw around herself, shivered, and coughed.
“You should have a lie-down,” Karl said. “I know you wasn’t comfortable in that trunk. I’m sorry about that. And I’m sorry I had to choke you like I did. I had to do that so you wouldn’t make a fuss.”
He sat on a box, eating his lunch, as if this were a perfectly normal situation for him. Maybe it was.
“Where are you from, Karl?” she asked.
“ Kansas. But I ain’t been back there in a long time.”
“Why is that?”
He pretended not to have heard her, his little trick for avoiding a topic.
“What brought you to Minneapolis?”
“A train,” he said, and laughed and laughed.
“You like moving around from town to town?”
“It suits me,” he said, nodding. “Can’t stay in one place too long.”
“Why is that?”
His face darkened as he looked down at the knife he’d used to cut the sausage, a nine-inch boning knife Carey knew to be sharp enough to cut paper. “It’s just best to move on.”
Because he went from town to town murdering innocent people? The system had coughed up a record on Karl Dahl, but there was no way of knowing what he might have done and gotten away with. He was one of those people who drifted along below the radar.
No one wanted to pay any attention to men like Karl, the strange, the quiet, the disenfranchised. All the ordinary citizens, with jobs and mortgages and kids, wanted nothing more than for the Karl Dahls of the world to pass through and keep on going.
Karl might have quietly left a string of homicides in his wake as he’d moved from place to place. He could have been invisible, blending into the background, calling no attention to himself.
If not for the neighbor stupidly stepping out of his house to videotape the tornado bearing down on the city that fateful day, Karl Dahl might have walked away from the Haas massacre into the mists, hopped another train, and gone on to another state, and the Haas murders would have gone unsolved.
“Come on,” he said.
He abandoned his lunch and approached her again.
Carey sat very still, like a small prey animal afraid to move or breathe. He put a hand around her wrist and pulled her up out of the chair. Not roughly, but firmly.
“I made this nice bed for you,” he said. “I want you to lie down on it.”
She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the sense of dread became heavier, more oppressive. She knew too much about what had been done to Marlene Haas.
Had it started like this? Karl fixating on the woman, deciding she was his angel because she had helped him out, then wanting to possess her physically and sexually, flying into a rage when she tried to reject him. The rage unleashing the demons that lived in his soul. The demons spinning themselves into a frenzy.
“Lie down now,” Karl ordered her as she stepped to the edge of the nest he had made for her. The idea of his touching her, forcing himself on her, was beyond revolting.
Afraid to antagonize him, Carey lowered herself to the floor, lay down on her side, curled into the fetal position. Karl sat down and put her head in his lap and stroked her hair.
“You sleep now, angel. We have all the time in the world.”
For what? she wondered. Did he think she would become his willing traveling companion? Or did he think that in death her soul would become his forever?
“You’re with me now. I haven’t had an angel in a long, long time.”
“You had an angel once?” she asked in a hushed voice. “What was her name?”
He didn’t answer the question. Finally, he said very softly, “I had an angel once.”
“What happened to her?” Carey asked.
Karl looked down into her face, expressionless. “She went to heaven… like angels do.”
57
CAREY HELD EVERY muscle in her body tight agains
t the violent trembling shuddering through her. She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep while Karl Dahl continued to stroke her hair and whisper to her, “You are my perfect angel,” over… and over… and over.
She had no idea how much time passed. An hour that seemed like minutes. Minutes that seemed like an hour.
Questions of who his last angel had been played through her mind, the possibilities all bad. Men like Karl didn’t come from loving homes with doting parents. They came from unhappy childhoods. Absent or abusive father. A mother who either blamed the child for everything wrong in her life or clung to the son because of her abusive husband. The child learned the power of violence, and his only example of a man’s relationship with a woman was a terrible, distorted story laced with hate and self-loathing.
Some people would have pitied the Karl Dahls of the world. She pitied Karl the child, but a sad story was not license to commit murder. Carey knew plenty of people with similar backgrounds-cops, lawyers, social workers-who had suffered a Karl Dahl childhood but raised themselves above it, instead of succumbing to it.
But then she was a prosecutor by nature, and prosecutors tended to think in black-and-white. Good or Evil. Innocent or Guilty.
And as a judge, she was supposed to operate with a blindfold on.
She wondered about Karl’s last angel and what had happened to her. Did he consider his mother his angel, and had she died of old age or disease or her husband’s brutality? Had his angel been his teenage love? Or his first victim? Or his last victim?
Marlene Haas had been kind to him, had offered him work, had offered him food. He had returned her kindness with horror. Karl Dahl was not a man destined for happy endings.
Based on a store of terrible knowledge, Carey projected what would happen to her if she couldn’t escape. Karl would play out his little fantasy of loving and caring for her, but he would tire of it or feel the need to move on. Or she would do something to anger him, and that anger would be a trigger to his rage, and in his rage he would kill her.