Reggie hurried down the hall to Stu’s bedroom. It contained a double bed—carefully made with a dark spread on top, a bureau, a wooden chest, and a walk-in closet. The wooden chest contained extra sheets and blankets. In the bureau she found the usual—socks and boxer shorts in the top drawer, T-shirts in the second, a few pairs of jeans in the bottom. While rummaging around in the drawer with the jeans, she felt something cold and metallic. Even before lifting it from its hiding place, she knew what it was: a gun. Some kind of automatic pistol. Reggie didn’t know enough about guns to identify it beyond that. She tucked it back right where she’d found it, between two pairs of pants.
No big deal, she told herself. Lots of people keep handguns in the house, especially ex-cops. Still, it made her shiver. But this was no proof. Neptune wasn’t a shooter. What she needed to find was surgical tools, bandages, a fine-toothed saw for cutting bone.
She reminded herself she had to hurry. Who knew how long it would be before Duke dropped his steak bone and started barking to alert the entire neighborhood that there was an intruder in his house. She checked the closet and found neatly pressed shirts and pants hanging. She felt along the top shelf and found only a few mothballs.
Charlie’s old bedroom was across the hall from his father’s. It was empty now, except for a twin bed, neatly made, and an empty chest of drawers. There was nothing in the closet, no homey artwork on the walls. It felt abandoned.
She walked across the hall to Stu’s office, the heels of her boots clicking on the hardwood floor. Back when Charlie was living at home, Stu had kept his office locked. Now, Reggie was happy to discover, he didn’t bother. The old hasp was still bolted to the outside of the door, but there was no heavy padlock in place.
What she saw when she stepped into the room sucked the breath from her chest, as if she’d stepped into some kind of vacuum chamber.
The room was cluttered and chaotic, the walls, desk, and floor covered with notes, photos, police reports, and newspaper clippings on the Neptune case.
“Son of a bitch,” she murmured.
It was like going back in time.
Pinned to the wall were police photographs of each hand inside each milk carton, and of the three victims as they were found: Ann Stickney on the town green, Candace Jacques at the base of the Knowledge statue in front of the library, Andrea McFerlin sprawled in the fountain at King Philip Park. Each woman was naked, left in a strange, contorted-looking pose, each with a big white paw of bandages covering the place where her right hand had been.
Reggie felt stomach acid burning its way up into her throat. She swallowed hard, trying to keep it down. It was one thing to read about the bodies, to hear it talked about in the news, and to imagine what they might have looked like. But actually seeing them—noticing little details like the C-section scar on Andrea McFerlin’s stretch-mark-covered abdomen; Candace’s Jacques torn earlobe from Neptune’s ripping at her earring during their struggle; the waxy, dappled light that made Ann Stickney’s body seem almost blue-ish—brought the killings to life in a whole new, sickening way. These were real women, not just names on the news. She’d known that before, yes, but never truly understood it till now.
And there, in the last photo on the right, was her mother’s right hand inside the milk carton, the scar tissue looking like plastic, like maybe the hand had been made of modeling clay—something from a Hollywood special effects department. But it was Vera’s hand, no doubt. And even now, the finger was stuck pointing in Reggie’s direction.
Reggie’s legs turned to jelly and she grabbed the edge of Stu’s desk, lowering herself into his padded office chair. She took a few calming breaths, then flipped on Stu’s computer, but it was password protected. She tried neptune, duke, yogi, and charlie and then was officially out of ideas, so she turned if back off. There was an avalanche of papers and file folders covering the top of the desk and spilling over onto the floor. A lot of them had names of the victims and suspects written across the tab: ANN STICKNEY, ANDREA MCFERLIN, CANDACE JACQUES, JAMES JACOVICH, SAL ROSSI, WAYNE ABBOTT. And there, on the top of the pile was a file marked VERA DUFRANE. There was a note paper clipped to it. Reggie picked up the file and read the note:
10/18/10
Detective Berr,
I doubt if you remember me—my name is Tara Dickenson, we met years ago. I’m an old friend of Charlie’s. I work as a nurse and was recently hired to care for Vera Dufrane. Vera said something last night, something that I was hoping you might help me make sense of. My cell is 860-318-1522. Please call as soon as you get this. I’d like to meet today, if possible.
—Tara
“So this is how you got her,” Reggie said. He’d just called the number, arranged a meeting, and grabbed her. This was the evidence Reggie had been searching for. She’d go straight to the police. But she had to be careful, didn’t she? They were all friends of Stu’s. Maybe she should go to the state police? Or call the FBI even.
She checked her watch. Less than two hours until Len arrived. He could go with her. She could do this with his help.
Reggie flipped open her mother’s file. Inside was a mug shot and arrest report dated December 3, 1976. The charges were driving under the influence and assaulting a police officer. According to the report, when she was pulled over, she lashed out at the officer with her car keys, catching him in the cheek. He needed three stitches. She had to do six months of community service. There was a second arrest report and mug shot, this one dated April 25, 1981. According to the report, Vera was brought in after agreeing to have sex with an undercover officer for $100. Reggie looked down at her mother’s disheveled wardrobe, the smudged mascara around her eyes making her look like an exhausted raccoon. Why would she do it? What could she have needed a hundred bucks for that badly?
Reggie’s head felt as if it were in a vise, being tightened at the temples.
Flipping through Vera’s file, Reggie found notes Stu Berr had taken after an interview with Vera on June 15, 1985:
Ms. Dufrane admits to knowing the most recent victim, Candace Jacques. When asked the nature of their relationship, Ms. Dufrane stated that Ms. Jacques “was someone I know from the bars. We go way back.” Ms. Dufrane denies having any animosity toward Ms. Jacques, in spite of the fact that James “Rabbit” Jacovich left her to be with Ms. Jacques. “She can have him,” Ms. Dufrane stated.
Stu asked her where she’d been when Candace disappeared and she couldn’t recall. She denied knowing Andrea McFerlin, but admitted to having a relationship with Sal Rossi, whom Andrea was involved with at the time of her death.
Reggie’s eyes jumped ahead a few paragraphs to where she saw her own name:
Ms. Dufrane has one child, Regina Dufrane, age 13. Regina lives in the family home, Monique’s Wish, with Vera’s older sister, Lorraine Dufrane, as her primary caregiver. When questioned about the identity of Regina’s father, Ms. Dufrane laughed and muttered something unintelligible, then recited lines from a child’s nursery rhyme:
“Georgie, Porgie, pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry,
When the boys came out to play,
Georgie Porgie ran away.”
Of note, Ms. Dufrane was clearly under the influence of alcohol during this interview and I believe this may have colored some of her answers.
Chapter 37
June 23, 1985
Brighton Falls, Connecticut
“THE KILLER COMES HERE,” Tara said as soon as they walked through the door of Reuben’s.
Reggie followed Sid, Charlie, and Tara in a daze. She hadn’t wanted to come, wanted to be back in her room, hiding under her grandmother’s quilt, but Tara had talked her into it.
“This is the last night, Reg,” she’d said into the phone, voice tinged with desperation. “Our last chance to find your mother. If we don’t save her—” Tara didn’t let herself finish, just left the words hanging, letting Reggie do her own gruesome fill-in-the-blanks. “So, here’s the plan,” Tara con
tinued. “You’re gonna get your ass out of bed and get dressed. We’ll pick you up in half an hour, take a ride over to Reuben’s.” Reggie hadn’t said anything about her talk with George or her visit with Bo Berr, but the events of the day before were eating away at her, pulsating, like the pain in the leg Tara had cut.
“How do you know Neptune comes here?” Charlie asked.
“They told me—Andrea, Candy, and Ann. They say we’re on the right track. Their voices are coming in loud and strong. They’re here with us now.” She licked her lips. Tara looked paler than usual, like a girl made of paper.
“Give me a break,” Charlie said.
“Chill out, cuz,” Sid said, putting a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Let our black magic woman do her thing.”
Charlie shrugged Sid’s hand off and looked back at the door, like he was considering bolting. His eyes were furious. Then he looked back at Tara and seemed to calm down, deciding to stay put for the time being.
Reuben’s was about half the size of Runway 36, and as Sid explained, the big draw wasn’t the atmosphere but the food. Reuben’s didn’t have a pool table, jukebox, or neon beer signs. The walls were covered in cheap faux wood paneling with photos, newspaper clippings, and postcards tacked to it. There was a bar with worn stools and a dozen wooden tables with mismatched chairs. In the corner, by the hallway that led to the bathrooms, was a Ms. Pac-Man machine. Lively accordion music drifted from the kitchen along with wonderful, spicy smells. A chalkboard behind the bar listed drink specials and a simple menu: gumbo, jambalaya, red beans and rice, and a Cajun burger. Underneath, in small letters, someone had added: FORTUNES TOLD, $5. ASK AT BAR.
“How’s your leg?” Tara whispered.
Reggie shrugged.
“I did the inside of my arm just before Sid picked me up.” Tara breathed. “I’ll show you later.” Reggie let go of Tara’s hand.
Sid nodded at the bartender, a tall man with light brown skin and pale eyes, and headed for a corner table. When they got to the table, Tara sat next to him. She was wearing a black long-sleeved leotard and tights with jeans that were more hole than fabric. Charlie had on his Sticky Fingers shirt with a Levi’s jacket on top of it.
Reggie surveyed the room. The dinner crowd hadn’t arrived yet. There was a couple eating at a table near the door, speaking in hushed tones between bites. Two people were seated at opposite ends of the bar: an old woman in a fuchsia coat with a poodle on her lap and a chunky bald man who was dressed in a black vinyl suit, complete with a long vinyl trench coat. Reggie could see that the guy was perspiring horribly, red in the face. The top of his head glistened. He was drumming his fingers on the bar. On each of his fingers was at least one ring.
“Get a load of Vinyl Man over there,” Charlie whispered.
Tara rolled her eyes. “It takes all kinds,” she said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her ratty purse. Sid lit her cigarette for her. He’d cleaned himself up, shaved, moussed his hair into place, put on black jeans and a black blazer over a Zig-Zag Rolling Papers T-shirt.
The man from behind the bar came over to their table.
“What can I do for you folks tonight?” Reggie couldn’t place his accent. It was lilting. Musical. His skin was smooth and mocha colored, his eyes a startling pale blue that reminded Reggie of aquamarine. The bartender had a leather string tied around his neck, with what appeared to be a chicken foot tied at the end. Reggie couldn’t take her eyes off the foot, the reptilian toes dry and curled.
“A Bud and a Cajun burger—rare,” Sid said.
“And for the lady?” he asked, nodding in Tara’s direction
Tara smiled. Licked her lips. “I’ll have a Long Island iced tea, please.”
The bartender laughed. “You expect me to believe you’re twenty-one?”
“I look young for my age,” Tara said.
The man stared at her, then looked at the rest of them. “How about a pitcher of soda?”
“Coke, please,” Charlie said. “And I’d like a Cajun burger, too.”
“I’ll take the gumbo,” Tara said, sinking back into her chair and playing with a chunk of hair.
“Good choice, miss.” The man smiled. “It’s the house specialty.”
“And for you, miss?” he asked, looking at Reggie.
“I’m not really—” Reggie started to say.
“She’ll take the gumbo,” Tara interrupted.
The bartender turned and headed back behind the bar and through the swinging doors into the kitchen.
Reggie went back to scanning the bar like she was waiting for the old woman or Vinyl Man to do something unusual that she didn’t want to miss. Exchange some secret look, a few words, a kiss maybe. You never knew what might happen.
“So what do you think?” Charlie asked, his voice breathy and light. “Is that guy Reuben? Should we ask him about Vera?”
Vera. New York Vera. Aphrodite Cold Cream, gonna-be-a-star Vera.
Vera the whore.
“I’m pretty sure that’s Reuben,” Sid said. “I guess his mom does most of the cooking. She grew up in Louisiana. Out on the bayou or whatever. They say she practices voodoo—you know, dolls and dead chickens and shit like that. Did you catch the foot around Reuben’s neck? Pretty fucked up, huh?”
“Like I said before, it takes all kinds,” Tara said. “Want a cigarette, Reggie?”
Reggie shook her head.
Sid reached for the pack and lit one. “You smoke like a movie star,” Sid said to Tara.
“Thank you, darling,” Tara said, blowing smoke into Sid’s face. She reached for her lighter and started flicking it over and over, making sparks.
“What’d you do yesterday, Reg?” Charlie asked.
I let Tara slice my leg open with a razor. Then I went and saw your uncle and asked him if he was my father. I found out my mother was a whore.
“Nothing,” Reggie said, sinking lower into her seat, wishing she were anywhere but here.
What if Bo had lied? Said all that stuff just to cover up the truth—that he really was Reggie’s dad? The thought made her sick. She looked up at Charlie, whom she’d been in love with since first grade. Was it really possible that he could be her cousin?
Reggie’s head began to pound.
“You okay?” Tara asked, rubbing Reggie’s shin with the toe of her boot under the table.
“Fine,” Reggie said, swallowing hard.
The bartender returned with their drinks, and when Sid asked, he confirmed that yes, he was Reuben, proprietor of the place since 1976.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Reuben,” Tara held out her hand demurely. The tall man took it, gave it a slight squeeze.
“I wonder if you can help us. See, my friend Reggie here is Vera Dufrane’s daughter. We heard Vera spends a lot of time here.”
“Can’t say I know her,” Reuben said. The guy was poker-faced.
“Really?” Tara asked.
“Can’t say as I recall anyone with that name,” Rueben said.
“She’s about five five, platinum blond hair, wears a lot of makeup,” Charlie said, trying to sound like his dad. “She’s an actress. And a model.”
Did you know I was the Aphrodite Cold Cream girl?
Want to see a trick? Buy me a drink and I’ll show you.
Reuben shook his head. “Not ringing any bells. Your food’ll be out in no time,” Reuben said before heading back to the bar. He refilled Vinyl Man’s glass and said something that made the large man turn on his stool and look toward their table. His eyes were too small for his broad, flat face. His wet skin shimmered under the lights above the bar.
Reggie, feeling self-conscious, turned to Charlie, whispered, “I don’t like it in here. I want to go home.”
Charlie nodded. “I know. I don’t like it either. But let’s just stay and eat, huh?” He moved closer to her, put his arm around her. It made her feel all glowing and warm, but then she realized he was just doing it because Tara had snuggled up next to Sid.
“Welcome to the world, Baby-O,” Tara said, playing with her hourglass necklace.
“I don’t know why we even came here,” Charlie said. “It’s obviously a big waste of time. This Reuben guy doesn’t even know Vera.”
“Oh God, he’s obviously lying,” Tara said.
“Did the dead ladies tell you that, too?” Charlie snapped.
“No,” Tara said. “I could just tell.”
“I agree with Tara,” Sid said.
“Of course you do,” Charlie said bitterly.
“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” Reggie said, standing. Her knees felt strange and rubbery. The cut on her leg stung horribly.
“Want me to go with you?” Tara asked.
Christ, what was she? Six? Did Reggie really seem that pathetic to her friends?
“No thanks. I’m fine.”
“You sure?” Tara asked, opening her purse just a little with her right hand, giving Reggie a peek at the little silver box with the razor blade inside.
Tara was taking things to a new level, inviting her to indulge in their secret pastime in a public place, showing the wrapped-up razor blade right in front of the boys, who were oblivious. Reggie’s skin itched as she looked down at the blade. She felt the secret between them beating, throbbing like a toothache. It gave her a thrill but made her feel slightly ruined, like a bright, shiny apple with a rotten spot no one could see.
“No thanks,” Reggie said again as she turned away from Tara’s disappointed face.
On her way past the bar, Reggie peered back into the kitchen through the windows on the swinging doors. She saw Reuben standing at a counter, laying out a whole plucked chicken. Reuben caught Reggie watching, gave a long, slow smile, then raised a huge cleaver and brought it down, expertly slicing the bird in half along the breastbone, with one quick stroke.
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