The street was jammed with cars. A sign on the front door directed me to a side gate for the baby's christening party. When I reached the backyard, I figured half the parish must have come.
Three barbeque grills smoked and flamed on the patio. Cindy's husband minded a whole fishery's worth of salmon steaks. Beer nestled in ice-filled tubs beside the grills. Nearby, a picnic table groaned under the weight of a fancy cake, a dozen kinds of salads, condiments, plates, and utensils.
I helped myself to a beer and looked through the crowd of strangers for Dave. He waved from across the yard. A pretty blonde in a halter top, floral miniskirt, and sandals had a hand on his arm. Her attention turned to me, and her soft pink lips pulled into a pout.
Dave extracted himself from her clutches and threaded between people until he reached me.
"Boy, am I glad to see you," he said, bending to peck my cheek.
I pulled back in surprise. His arm went around my shoulder, and he steered me toward the house. "That woman sticks like Elmer's Glue."
"So you told her I was your girlfriend?" I asked, feigning outrage. I couldn't keep the laugh out of my voice.
"Hardy har. Wait until some shark sets his sights on you."
Once we were in the kitchen, Dave released me. I nibbled chips from a bowl on the counter while he wiped a forearm across his sweating face.
"How was the date?" he asked.
"It wasn't a date! We just had lunch." I pressed my beer against my face, hoping to cool the rising heat.
Dave's eyes had a twinkle in them. "I stand corrected. How was the lunch?"
"Good. But listen, I saw Sleeth this morning. He lied about not knowing Decker. He spent last night with Decker's secretary."
Dave lifted his chin. "You promised you'd stay away from Sleeth."
I'd counted on Dave to see a way out of my prickly situation. I'd gotten myself stuck between a lie and a catastrophe. The tone of his voice flushed my hopes away.
"No I didn't. And anyway, I wasn't following Sleeth. I thought maybe I could get the secretary to talk, one woman to another."
"Nicky, Greene will put you on report when you tell him. You've been warned not to interfere."
I focused on Cindy's kitchen floor, looking for scuff marks while I fumed. It was immaculate, as always.
"I thought I might not tell Greene just yet," I said in a small voice. "After all, he's convinced Sleeth didn't do it. Why confuse him with facts that don't support his conclusions?"
When I glanced up, Dave stared at me with his mouth open. My hand tightened on my beer.
"All us cops, we're a team. We have to work together, help one another. And we have to obey orders," Dave lectured. "I know you're frustrated, but you can't be a renegade. And you can't withhold evidence to cover up your own bad behavior."
"I'm trying to help, but Greene won't let me!"
"It's your first week on patrol. What do you expect? You have to put in the time, show you can follow the rules. You can't take shortcuts."
I threw up my hands. "Shortcuts? Name one officer who graduated top of the academy class and got stuck on desk duty for two years."
We glared at one another until Cindy stuck her head in and called us to eat. Dave held the door for me, and we lined up with the rest of the guests.
The blonde bombshell positioned herself next to Dave and gave me a condescending look while she ran her eyes over my sneakers, pedal pushers, and seersucker shirt. I'm sure she wondered what he saw in me. Occasionally I asked myself the same question, especially when I'd done something as stupid as going to Miss Brown's house.
Dave seemed more inclined to talk to her now that he and I were on the outs. Fine by me. I needed to decide on my next move.
We ate on opposite sides of the yard. My anger faded, and I had to acknowledge that Dave was right. I needed to tell Greene and Mack about Sleeth and take my lumps. My party spirit fizzled.
It wasn't until Cindy cut the cake that Dave extricated himself from his blonde shadow and came to stand by me.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have gone off on you like that. You're a good officer and a selfless person. But lately, your desire for promotion seems to drive your decisions, and some of them aren't the best."
A little tickle of guilt wiggled through my gut. Dave had such high expectations of me. I hated to admit I'd let him down and changed the subject.
"I found out where Tad was before the accident."
Dave's mouth twitched into a frown. "You went looking without me?"
"Memories fade and get confused. I didn't want to delay any longer, so I made the rounds this afternoon. It's not like I was in any danger."
Dave wasn't mollified.
"The bartender at The Shack says he came in for happy hour and didn't leave until eight."
Dave scratched his jaw and stared into space. "That still leaves three and a half hours unaccounted for."
"But here's the interesting part. Those two guys I saw on the sidewalk came in just after Tad did and left right behind him. The bartender didn't like the look of them. He thought they were casing the joint for a stickup."
"You and Mr. Newell are on a first name basis now?" He had his hands on his hips and watched me like a mother watches her toddler in the candy store. "Did he say why he was at the Carlisle Hotel?"
I stubbed my toe on the grass. "He says it isn't familiar. If things are slow tomorrow, I thought about checking theaters to see if anyone remembers him. If he caught a show, it would fill a hole in the timeline."
"Good idea." Dave passed a hand over his hair and examined his own shoes. "You know, Nicky, if you want a promotion, you should forget about Sleeth and focus on Newell. If you collar someone who's after him, it'll prove what a good cop you are, and you won't have to do it behind Greene's back."
Dave had a point. I'd also be able to look myself in the mirror. I resolved to keep my nose clean and stay away from the Slasher case.
"Why don't you go through mug shots, see if you can recognize those two guys," Dave suggested. "That'll tell us who's after Newell."
18
The streetlights in Susie's neighborhood came on as Kasker turned down her block. Steppenwolf's Born to Be Wild blared from the radio, and his thumbs tapped the steering wheel in time to the music. Things were finally looking up.
Susie would have Decker's appointment diary. She'd haggle over what she wanted for it. He'd promise her anything. Then they'd screw because that would be a bargaining chip in Susie's offer.
In the diary would be the clue he needed to locate Holmes. When he'd found Holmes, he'd learn how Decker had been released and where he was now, assuming his soul hadn't been swallowed by the universe. Then he'd devour Holmes and shed this goats-begotten flesh. And his promises to Susie.
Already, an uncomfortable lump in his crotch strained the zipper of his jeans. Bang Susie first, then take the diary. No more lies. No more tricks. In and out, he told himself. In and out. The lump hardened at the thought.
But Susie was dead.
Kasker killed the radio and cruised by without slowing, all his senses heightened. No lights shone through Susie's windows. Inside her house, the last remnants of her soul faded from existence.
He slammed a hand on the wheel. He had to get into the house and look for the diary, but he couldn't afford to be found at the scene of another death, especially one connected to Decker. Bad enough he'd been seen here earlier. He turned at the next corner and parked.
An hour later, when the last light faded from the sky, Kasker considered his options. He could sneak through backyards to Susie's, but one of the houses had a dog, and all of the houses had five-foot chain-link fences. The dog would bark before he got close enough to silence it.
Approaching from the other end of the block meant more fences and more dogs. Souls and their annoying pets! He hissed his displeasure through gritted teeth.
The residents of the house directly behind Susie's enjoyed the cool evening air on their back patio. He
could wait to see if they went inside, but waiting wasn't for him. He was a hunter.
He'd have to go to the front door. He wished he'd stolen all Susie's keys instead of only the key to Decker Industries, in case her door was locked. He should have taken the mechanic up on the offer of a new tire iron. It might come in handy.
Kasker strolled quietly along the sidewalk, hands jammed in his pockets, head down. No one seemed to take note of his passing. Except that old guy on the porch, a candle flickering on the table beside him. How could humans live like that? All day, just sitting. He shivered.
He turned up Susie's drive, cut across the lawn, and mounted the two short steps to the door. He didn't bother with the bell, didn't knock, didn't hesitate to turn the knob.
Locked.
Horns and hooves! How would he get in? Then he remembered Susie's open bedroom window at the side of the house. It had done little to cool the room while they'd had sex, but it would allow him access.
He hurried through the creaking side gate and tripped over a rake, falling on the dry, prickly grass. He cursed Susie for leaving the rake and whoever killed her for depriving him of release from the demands of the flesh.
The window stood open as before. It was placed at an inconvenient height to shimmy through. He scraped his back on the sash and banged his head on Susie's dresser.
The smell of her death tainted the air. He tripped over something on the floor and crashed onto the bed, which wasn't where it used to be. With care, he crawled to the door, encountering more unexpected obstacles. He turned on the light.
Dresser drawers lay scattered across the fuzzy carpet, undergarments strewn amongst them. The mattress had been sliced open, the dresser toppled away from the wall. The contents of the closet decorated the top of the wreckage.
Kasker moved to the living room. The bedroom light illuminated couch cushions ripped open, the lamp overturned, the braided rug shoved into a rumpled mess at one side.
Susie lay on a mound of stuffing just two steps inside the door, a single red hole in her back. Kasker pictured her killer searching the house for Decker's diary. When he didn't find it, he waited for her to return and shot her through the bloody throw pillow now on the floor beside the body.
If the wraith of her soul still clung to the flesh when he arrived, she'd been shot four hours earlier, or around four that afternoon. Or perhaps she'd lain wounded on the floor for some period before death overtook her, in which case, she could have been attacked earlier.
A large pool of blood spread under Susie. He wasn't sure what that meant in relation to the time of the shooting. He checked to be sure there was nothing of interest under her or clenched in her hands. Turning her over had all the charm of wrestling a beached whale.
Beside her, a torn grocery sack contained chocolate syrup, raspberry syrup, melted peach ice cream, and a broken bottle of cheap white wine. She'd anticipated his return and remembered that he preferred raspberries to strawberries. Thoughts of where she would have applied the syrup flickered through his brain, and his flesh swelled. Goats! The timing of her demise was unfortunate.
He righted the lamp and turned it on. A few steps away, he found her voluminous purse dumped out amid the destruction. Cosmetics, hair brush, nail file, wallet containing twelve dollars, her ID, and another photo of the dog.
He pocketed the money.
A ring of keys, pen, checkbook, two paperback romance novels with half-naked couples clutched in suggestive embraces on their covers. The swollen bosoms increased the pressure of his woody.
No diary. He examined the check register. The last entry was for today at Wally's Food Mart. Tucked in the register was a receipt for a dollar and change from Postal Instant Press, a copy shop. It carried today's date.
So that's why Susie sent him on the wild goose chase to Decker Industries. She wanted a copy of the diary before she gave it to him. Why copy it? If it contained information Decker wanted to conceal from the cops, blackmail of Decker's associates came to mind.
But who knew she had the diary? Decker, but since Kasker had detected no untethered soul outside the bookstore door, it was unlikely Decker's soul survived. And if Decker thought he'd want it later, why hadn't he taken it with him? Why come back for it when the cops would be searching the place and Kasker would be hunting him? It didn't make sense.
Possibly Susie had already contacted someone from the diary, and they were responsible for her death. If that was true, whoever it was worked fast. They'd had little time to react. Holmes?
Kasker stuffed the receipt in his jeans with the money and left through the window. He had no leads to either Holmes or Decker. Seve wouldn't be pleased. Neither would his master. He had to think of something soon. Otherwise, he'd be forced to revisit the Oracle.
19
Parking at the beach was a bitch. Sunday noon, and the surf was up. Half of Solaris lounged on the sand or played in the water. The girls were strutting in their teeny weeny yellow-polka dot bikinis. Hard-bodied weight-lifters and sunburned surfers trailed after them, all awash in a cloud of hormones.
I wore a cool cotton sundress that brushed the top of my knees. I walked the quarter mile from my parking spot to the old pier that jutted into the ocean. The wind ruffled my hair, turning it into a frazzled mess. I squinted against the reflection from the water and looked for Tad.
A hand touched my shoulder, and I spun around.
"Wow, Nicky, you look great," Tad said, running his eyes from my feet to my head. "I almost didn't recognize you."
My face warmed more than the sun accounted for. Tad looked very handsome in his casual cotton shirt and Bermuda shorts. Ropes of muscle wrapped his arms and legs. So did patches of scabs and bruised skin.
"You look…" I didn't know what to say.
"Lucky to be alive?" he suggested and grinned.
My heart sped up. He took a firm grip on my elbow and steered me toward the pier. We trod the faded boards, staying so close that our shoulders brushed. Waves rolled in and crashed against the pilings below us, sending salt spray into the air.
Tad pointed to a vacant bench near the end and invited me to sit. He joined me. I could smell his aftershave. It reminded me of his skin against my lips. A shiver twitched up my back.
Why had I let Tad talk me into this? I should be at the station going through the mug books.
"Any progress on the Slasher case?" he asked.
"I'm not part of the investigation, remember?"
He took my hand in his. "You must hear things around the station, things that aren't in the updates my father receives."
"I'm not exactly 'one of the boys.' Besides, I have more important things to investigate."
"What could be more important than stopping a crazed lunatic from committing another murder?" His voice dripped with incredulity.
"Finding out why two hard-looking men chased you into the street the night you were hit."
Tad's brow drew down, and he let go of my hand. "I don't remember anyone chasing me."
I rolled my eyes. "You don't remember anything from that day. How would you know whether someone was chasing you?"
He leaned back and put his arm behind me across the top of the bench. He watched the wave roll in without saying anything.
"Are you in some kind of trouble?" I asked.
That brought him up short. "What kind of question is that?"
"Do you know two guys, one white and skinny, with a cross tattooed on the side of his neck, the other Negro, medium height, bad acne scars on his face?"
He massaged his right temple. Sweat glistened on his forehead. "I can't think of anyone like that. They were probably drawn by the accident. You know how people like to gawk."
"You haven't received any death threats? No one's sent you any hate mail?"
"Despite my dad's best efforts, I'm not that famous." He gave a wry laugh. Then his eyes narrowed as he watched the waves crashing against the beach. "You seriously believe they were chasing me? I didn't just step off th
e curb in a moment of carelessness?"
The news seemed to shake him more than I expected. I wanted to console him, but I couldn't find the words.
He leaned forward, rested his forearms on his thighs, and stared at his hands. "You think you know what life's about, your place in it. And then in one moment… one decision… it's all turned upside down. You see where you went wrong, but there's so little time left to make a difference, to correct your mistakes."
I put a hand on Tad's shoulder. "I'll protect you. I'll find those guys and make them tell me why they were after you."
His hazel eyes met mine. "Protecting me isn't worth the effort. You need to go after the Slasher."
I stood up and leaned against the railing to face him. "It's not my case."
"It doesn't matter whose case it is. The Slasher has to be caught. I've seen the reports. The detectives aren't asking the right questions."
In some ways, I had to agree that Lt. Mack didn't seem to be doing all he could to stop the Slasher—like take Sleeth off the streets. But Dave's words echoed in my mind. We were a team. We didn't cut one another off at the knees.
"If we want a conviction, we have to follow procedures. I'd arrest Sleeth right now—"
"That's not what I mean." Tad ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. "Answer me this: why the bookstore?"
I didn't know, hadn't thought to ask the question.
"It must have taken a long time to set that elaborate scene. Why didn't the alarm go off sooner? And how did Bill Decker get there in the first place?"
"Well…" I chewed my lip.
"See, that's exactly what I mean. Everyone is so busy crucifying Sleeth that no one's looking at the big picture." Tad rose from the bench. "But you could. Find the secretary. Ask her about Decker's appointments. Where did he go and who did he see the week before he died?"
"You think he knew the psycho who gutted him?"
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