Dewitt shook his head—that wasn’t why he was here. Or was it? The buzzer sounded and Shilstein checked his watch and smiled, proud of his timing. How could one trust such a profile? Dewitt had read about the accuracy of such things but had never experienced this directly. The doctor’s certainty in his tone of voice, his relentless eye contact, disturbed Dewitt. His palms were sticky. His scalp itched. This world of stun sticks and straitjackets upset him. How many like Collette? he kept thinking.
“I can see the doubt in your face, Detective. This is an inexact science.” He tapped the folders and then handed them back to Dewitt. “Your collection of evidence is to be commended. It’s the evidence that tells me about your killer. I’ve interviewed over six hundred convicted murderers. Each one is uniquely different… and yet such profiles are possible through their similarities. Try the FBI. See what they say. I could be way off. Now,” he said, standing, “Collette is waiting.”
***
The tennis court was nearly twice the size of the other interrogation room. Across it’s center was an open wire net of foot-square sections, the ends of the cables U-bolted to dozens of thick steel eyelets fixed to the floor, walls, and ceiling. A Mack truck couldn’t break through that. Beyond this, on the inmate side, set three feet farther back, was a second net, hemp this time, and of similar foot-square grids. The hemp ropes were spliced one through the next in an elaborate braided method sailors use. A two-inch-wide red line had been painted on the floor at the barrier, three feet from the steel net. In both English and Spanish were the scuffed words DO NOT CROSS in stenciled red paint. On the observation side, four chairs were bolted to the floor immediately behind a similarly secured table. Dewitt took a seat in one of the chairs. An unrestricted Collette paced the inmate side behind the hemp. Five minutes of silence passed. Collette said, “Much better, don’t you think?”
“Much.”
“This is where the state board of review occasionally interviews inmates. Did you know that?”
“No,” answered Dewitt.
“They call it the tennis court because of the nets.”
“Yes.”
He went back to his pacing, continuing another five minutes before speaking again. Dewitt found this practice annoying. He began to fidget, picking at his fingernails. It reminded him of Emmy. Emmy had a thing about her nails.
Dewitt reminded, “I brought you tapes. Recent releases.”
Collette replied angrily, “I need more than that! For what I’ve got to tell you, I need much more.”
Dewitt waited, heart pounding. There was something about Collette’s delivery: firm, confident, intelligent—a different man than in their first confrontation.
“You’re the expert. You know much more about this than I do. I think I can stop whoever is copying you, but not without your help.”
“You stop him if you want. I don’t care. That’s your thing, man. I got other concerns. In a place like this, you got certain needs.”
“What can I do for you?” Dewitt asked. “If I can help, I’ll help.”
Collette approached the hemp net and hung his head through one of the frames. He widened his eyes and stared at Dewitt and began to nod. Dewitt felt his heart begin to pump strongly. Collette said, “Yeah… there we go, now you’re listening.”
The man began to pace again. “The thing is, what a guy would like here, what a guy needs, is a remote-control Mitsubishi twenty-seven inch, full cable, I mean full cable, and one of them Panasonic fully remote VCRs. All for himself. That and maybe a mail-order arrangement with one of them tape stores down in the city. You know, like ten tapes a week for as long as they hold me here. That’s the kind of thing makes a joint like this tolerable. We’re talking needs. They dope you up. No problem there. Ride’s nice and easy, but your mind’s got nowhere to go. Nothin’ to focus on. Know what I mean?”
Dewitt hesitated. “That’s a tall order. I’d need more than I’ve got if I’m going to dig up that kind of thing.”
“Come on, Dewitt.” He was hanging from the net again, apelike. “Don’t fuck around with me. You get me the gear, we’ll talk.”
“I can’t do that, Collette. Use your head. I need something to prove it’s worth the cost. You’re talking a couple thousand bucks. The state isn’t going to put up that kind of money on a hunch.”
“You’re not listening. You cops never listen. That’s your problem.”
“I am listening.”
“No you’re not.” He paced. “I’m telling you, I know all about your case. Let me ask you this, Detective, has anyone determined if they actually died inside their cars? They didn’t, you know. So if they didn’t, then where did they die? How did he kill them?” His words echoed inside the hard-walled room. With Collette pacing, and himself sitting, Dewitt felt it was he was being interrogated.
“That’s why I’m here, Harvey.”
“You’re here because he’s imitating me.”
“He traps his victims,” Dewitt tried.
“Of course.”
“In a public place?”
“There are two kinds of traps. Baited and unbaked. Baited, you lure them in. Unbaited, they simply stumble into the trap. You want a specific animal, you bait the trap. You don’t care what you get; you simply put a snare on a trail and you wait. Are you learning anything?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you are. That’s because I’m teaching you.” He laughed. “But teachers get paid, Dewitt.”
“I brought five tapes with me. They’re yours.”
“More. I want my own system.”
“I told you I’d try.” His words echoed hauntingly. “I’ll need specifics.”
“I’ve got news for you, Dewitt. He’s improvising. His plan went south on him. This isn’t how he planned it. Imitation is the most sincere form of flattery,” he repeated. “You think I’ll give that up for five movies? He’s made me immortal, Dewitt. My genius lives again through his actions. Would you give that up for five tapes? Would you? You know how I got women, cop? I hung out in a supermarket. The housewives shop for food, I shopped for housewives. Someone baited my trap for me, you see? The divorced ones were the safest. And the most stupid. You know how you tell the divorced ones? They have kids but no wedding ring. Simple. Follow them home or maybe get in line behind them and take their name and address off their checks. Little tricks. Watch their place. Make sure you’re right.”
“I don’t care about you!” Dewitt shouted, unable to sit through this.
“I think you do,” said Harvey Collette. “Guard!” he called out. “Get me my system, cop.”
The guards entered.
Dewitt shouted, “I need specifics.”
“You? You need an undertaker.”
“Lie flat and spread ’em,” the guard with the stun stick said. The other held the straitjacket. “Facedown. One twitch and I’ll fry your asshole shut for a week.”
“Twenty-seven inch. With remote control,” said Harvey Collette, grinning from the far side of the nets.
3
At Clarence Hindeman’s insistence, Dewitt was to make himself ready to escort Clare O’Daly to the Manny Roth fund-raising dinner. The mayor had passed the word to Hindeman: Jessie Osbourne would make herself available. Dewitt barely had time to drop Emmy at Hindeman’s and change clothes. Exhausted, he answered the door promptly at seven o’clock. He appreciated a woman who was punctual.
Clare wore coffee-colored cashmere slacks, a mohair hand-spun wool sweater with a scoop neck, and a gold necklace holding a setting with a single pearl at its center. She carried a perfect posture. He kissed her on the cheek. They took her Saab.
They were soon passing through Pebble Beach’s Carmel gate and winding along the scenic roadway that snaked through the compound. Dewitt directed her through the series of turns and stop signs.
“Let me catch you up on the latest,” she said, Dewitt pointing out a turn.
“Please.”
“We didn’t get anywhere
identifying the bleach in those cotton pills found on the bodies. Same with the paint chip from the bike. Can’t reach the right people on a Sunday. Tomorrow should be another story. But the Lumbrowski evidence is what’s of interest. A couple of things: One is that it was masking tape this time, and as you saw, we have the roll of tape. What you didn’t see was that there’s a latent print on the inside hub of the tape. We developed it with vapors, and it’s being rushed up to Ramirez and his ALPS computer because we compared it to prints on file and it doesn’t belong to Lumbrowski. There are several of us on the case, so I’m not seeing all of the evidence by any means… in fact, Morn seems to think that because of my association with the first two cases, I shouldn’t be on Lumbrowski at all. Thankfully, Brian doesn’t see it that way, and Brian’s my boss, not Rick Morn. Another difference: The hose is not the same. From what I hear, Morn thinks Lumbrowski committed suicide.”
“No way.”
“He’s going to rule copycat suicide; that’s what Brian tells me. There’s another rumor says Morn wants to put the first two kills on Lumbrowski.”
“Impossible. Something’s going on here that we’re not hearing about. There are two kinds of rumors, you know: those you’re not supposed to hear, and those people want you to hear.”
“Morn and Lumbrowski were rivals on homicide. He’s not worried about tarnishing the man’s record.”
“It’s a smoke screen. Don’t believe it. Someone wants these put to bed. That’s got to be what’s going on here,” he said. He pointed left. The road was clogged with parked Mercedes, Lincolns, and BMWs.
She pulled over and said, “The bad news is that we checked Lumbrowski’s Mustang. It no longer leaks oil. He must have had it repaired and had the oil changed; it doesn’t match.”
He nodded. He had worried about this since hearing from Capp that Lumbrowski had beat the impoundment. He said, “That also creates a technical problem: I never had the right to impound it. At least I can’t prove I did. That could be questioned now, made to look bad. I didn’t tell you this, but we fought outside the bar, his car, actually. There could be evidence… I didn’t report it. If I report it now, there’s no way I’ll get this investigation back.”
“Evidence?”
“It got pretty rough. I was trying to inventory the car. He didn’t like it. But it all depended on that oil. Maybe there’s oil on the undercarriage—”
“Steam cleaned, top to bottom.”
“So we can’t prove the car was at either site. Terrific!” he quipped sarcastically. He sat there contemplating where this left him. He had no witness to his discovery of the matching oil pattern gleaned outside The Horseshoe; it would be his word only—and his personal dislike for Lumbrowski was a well-known fact. “That all, I hope?”
She nodded.
***
As they approached Priscilla Laughton’s home, they heard the live jazz. Clare gripped his arm firmly then and pulled tightly against him.
An attractive woman in a maid’s outfit answered the door. Dewitt sensed their problem immediately as he caught a glimpse of a man wearing a tux, the woman on his arm in a full-length evening gown and high heels.
“Oh, no, James,” Clare said, tugging on his elbow. “This isn’t casual! The Laughton woman told me casual,” she complained.
The man of the hour, bald Manny Roth, neared, his politician’s grin contorting his otherwise worried face, hand outstretched, wearing an eye-damaging lime green plaid tuxedo, peach bow tie and cummerbund.
“We can’t stay, James,” she hissed at Dewitt.
He dragged her inside by the elbow. The mayor reached them. “James, James, good to see you. I know Jessie is eager to talk with you. I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said to Clare. Dewitt introduced them. Clare blushed and mumbled an apology for her appearance.
Dewitt said, “Seems we misunderstood the dress code.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Manny Roth. To Clare, he said, “You look stunning. Come in. Come in.”
She flashed Dewitt a helpless expression as the mayor pushed the door closed behind them.
The living room stretched before them, packed with elegant, tanned people milling and chatting. They formed clusters, like a dozen football huddles, the din of laughter and conversation deafening. Waiters and waitresses serviced them. The jazz came from another large room off the front foyer. Dewitt and Clare were steered toward a spiral stairway that led to the bottom floor, where a huge room had been converted to seat the dinner guests. It was the size of a banquet room, the far wall glass. Dewitt saw the twinkling lights of Carmel and the darkness of Point Lobos beyond. There was yet another room off of this, a room busy with a bevy of the heavy drinkers and two bars, each manned with a bartender. More huddles in this room, a quarterback in each group receiving the attention of the others, calling the plays.
When drinks were in hand, Roth led the two of them aside and said, “You know that everyone here is talking about the murders, don’t you? It’s good of you to come. Both of you. From what I understand, you’re part of the team,” he said to Clare.
“Sort of,” Clare allowed.
“Well, bad news about Lumbrowski.” He stared directly at Dewitt. “But at least this may be the end of it.”
“If you’re suggesting Lumbrowski was responsible for the other two kills—”
“You’re the one who placed him at both the crime scenes, as I understand it.”
“Even so—”
“And now he commits suicide in the exact same manner.” To Clare, Roth said confidently, “I’d say the road ends here. And that’s exactly what I expect to say tonight. We could all use some good news for a change.”
Dewitt said, “Lumbrowski was involved, certainly, but that’s as far as it goes.”
“As far as you go, from what I hear. Isn’t that right, Detective?” This was the Manny Roth who meant business. Clare flushed and sucked down a third of her drink, as if she hadn’t heard.
“Are you the reason Morn hasn’t invited me on to the Lumbrowski case?”
“Oh, no. You did that all by yourself. Seems a few Seaside detectives had to hold Lumbrowski off you at a local tavern. You were seen arguing with him. You think you should run the investigation? With the history you two had? Not the best thing for public relations. There’s no room for soloists in my band, Detective. We play from the same charts and we play in harmony. Let me make something perfectly clear,” he said, stepping a few inches closer. “Lieutenant Morn is convinced that Lumbrowski committed suicide and is connected to the other murders. They’re processing some evidence,” he said to Clare, “but from what I hear, it’s a formality.”
Dewitt said, “So I’m supposed to step back and watch you guys make complete assholes of yourselves?” Clare tugged on his arm. “You’re playing the wrong tune, Manny. The longer you continue, the more noticeable it is.”
“If you’ll excuse us,” Clare said.
Dewitt placed his drink down, waited for Clare to do the same, took her around the waist, and started dancing with her even though the music was coming from somewhere upstairs.
“James,” she pleaded as they became the focus of attention.
He drew her closer, pressing his cheek against hers. “You don’t want me to hit the guest of honor, do you?” She giggled into his ear. “Then hold me close and dance.” He spun with her, passing a number of huddles, interrupting them.
“We’re making a scene,” she said.
“Yes. How ‘bout that?” A second later, he said, “Look!” and spun so she could see over his shoulder. Two other couples were dancing. “We’re trend setters,” he said. She held him more tightly, pressing her body strongly against his. Softly. Her leg slipped between his, and they spun around again. It was more than a dancing pose; she was telling him something. It had been so long, some of it was lost in translation.
Upstairs, the song stopped, but they didn’t. When the next piece started, they adjusted their rhythm. It was a slow, slow piece
that featured a plaintive tenor sax. The horn carried downstairs in a wailing, lonely, breathy whisper. He was overcome by the sweet-sour smell of her, the touch of her hands, the softness of her body. He felt her warm damp breath on his neck. He blindly kissed her ear, and she nibbled on his neck. “This is getting out of hand,” she said.
“Mmm,” he replied, nibbling again.
They danced past the banquet tables, along the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Pacific. The clouds had broken. Stars escaped through.
***
“There you are,” said Priscilla Laughton, nudging Clare rudely aside and facing Dewitt. She wore a pale teal skirt with a madras sash, her hair up high on her head, and silver and turquoise earrings. To James Dewitt, she said, “Catching up on business, are we?” She called coarsely across the room to the mayor, drawing everyone’s attention: “Manny, introduce Miss O’Daly to some of our guests, would you please? I’m going to steal Mr. Dewitt away and sweep him off his feet.”
Clare stiffened. Dewitt felt Priscilla’s hand take his, and then found himself being dragged through the crowd.
Dewitt was led upstairs, where he literally bumped into a woman from behind, a woman wearing a tight blue velvet dress revealing an acre of skin and backbone, scooped down to the very cleft of her buttocks. When this woman turned around angrily, he saw it was Leala Mahoney, drink spilled across her hand. Priscilla Laughton introduced Dewitt to Mahoney, who bristled and said in a nasty voice, “Yes. We’ve met.” The public defender had worked her hair into a complex French braid. She had rigidly square shoulders. The velvet dipped alarmingly low in the front as well, cut wide across her shoulders and tapering between her breasts to a knife blade that ended just above her navel. Even with that lopsided face, she was ravishing. Dewitt mumbled an apology, Mahoney glaring at him angrily. Laughton finally had the good sense to pilot him away.
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