“Yeah, the Lady Godiva angle.” He shrugged. “Can’t rule that out. And even where the M.O. is similar, it’s different enough to be a head-scratcher.”
“Be specific.”
“Well, the strangulations, for example. They’re not the same-you have a nylon stocking for the Wilson girl, and powerful hands for Sharron Wesley. Then you have those two coeds in that barn who got slashed up like some demented sacrifice to the Gods.”
He could chow down on that Danish all he liked. I had lost my damn appetite.
“However,” he said, between nibbles, “don’t downplay the nudity aspect.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, I should say, the lack of clothes. The missing clothes.”
“Not following you, buddy.”
The gray-blue eyes narrowed. “There are two breeds of mass murderer, Mike. There’s your quiet everyday good citizen who snaps. Who’s out mowing the lawn one lovely morning, then suddenly goes inside, finds the German Luger he brought home from the war, and saunters around the neighborhood killing everybody he comes in contact with… Bang, there goes his next-door neighbor, pow, there goes the paper boy, bing, the mailman, wham, that annoying little old lady who never cuts her grass, and then back home and inside, bang, bang, bang, there go the wife and kiddies, and if the cops don’t kill him before he’s done, he turns the weapon on himself. That’s one kind.”
“And the other is the Jack the Ripper breed.”
“Right. What the textbooks called a serial mass murderer. A ruthless psychopath who blends into his surroundings like a chameleon-he may be a scout master or a grocer or even a preacher. But he’s slowly building a body count. The kind of guy whose backyard turns up an interesting crop, if you go digging.”
“Well, I appreciate the lecture, pal, but tell me something I don’t know.”
He pointed at me with the remaining third of his pastry. “How about this, Mike? A serial mass murderer likes to take trophies. The Ripper took female innards.” He raised an eyebrow to make his point, then interrupted himself with another bite of Danish, which he chewed as he said, “The missing clothes may be a trophy this killer collects.”
“A trophy?”
“A souvenir. Something he can take out and look at and re-live a memorable experience.”
“Find the clothes and I find the killer?”
“I don’t guarantee it, but keep that in mind.”
Something was nibbling at my mind the way Pat was at that pastry. “You said a serial mass murderer can be somebody that fits into a community, scout master, preacher. Could it be a woman?”
“Not impossible. But I’ve read book after book on this subject, Mike, and there just aren’t a lot of female mass murderers of either stripe.”
“Okay. But what about a police officer?”
“Well, sure. What better place to hide than behind a badge? It works for bent cops. It could work for a psychopathic one just as well. And a cop is somebody to whom violence is anything but foreign.”
“Maybe that’s how this ties up.”
“What do you mean, Mike?”
“I mean our pal Dekkert. We know he’s a sadistic son of a bitch. He’s got a badge and can go anywhere in or around Sidon with goddamn impunity.”
Pat was squinting at that, shaking his head. “Well, I don’t know. Dekkert’s time on the New York PD was all about money. Graft. And he had a reputation as a big, good-looking mug who never had trouble attracting the ladies.”
“Maybe so, but you remember Billy Ruston’s sister, Marion?”
“Sure. Cute kid.”
“Cuter than that. She’s all grown up and in all the right places. I ran into her at Louie Marone’s last night, and she told me about a couple trips she made out to Sharron Wesley’s gambling den.”
He shrugged his eyebrows. “No kidding. I didn’t know she was old enough to vote.”
“She’s old enough to do a lot of things. Anyway, seems Dekkert put the make on her, and I don’t mean brought her flowers and candy. He dragged her off into the bushes and if she hadn’t kneed him where babies begin, the bastard might well have raped her.”
He gave me a skeptical smirk. “I suppose anything is possible. But trying to force yourself on some dolly you bought drinks for at a casino isn’t the same as stringing up coeds by their ankles in a barn.”
“No. No, it isn’t.”
“And anyway, Mike, there’s no sexual assault in any of the four murders. This particular serial mass murderer may not be capable of normal sexual activity.”
“Not even an abnormal activity like rape?”
“Not even that. He probably gets his sexual charge out of the violence he takes out on these girls. Those trophies he takes, he may use them in pleasuring himself.”
“Sick bastard. This just keeps getting nastier and nastier.” I sighed and slugged down some coffee. “Cripes. Maybe I’m trying too hard.”
“Too hard to what?”
“To connect these murders up. Pat, I don’t know whether I’m getting closer, or if what Dave Miles told me is a distraction-throwing me off.”
Pat leaned forward, so close I could have brushed the crumbs off his mouth. But I didn’t.
“Look,” Pat said, “I may be able to help you out on this thing, this serial mass murder aspect, I mean… even without a direct New York City tie-in.”
“That would be swell, Pat. What do you have in mind?”
He sipped coffee and gave up a tiny shrug. “I’ve got a friend with the state police, a Sergeant Price. I’ll fill him in about these murders, and suggest that he may have a killer in his jurisdiction who may be trying to fall between the cracks by spreading his nasty games among various small-town, small-time law enforcement agencies.”
“You mean, you may be able to convince Price this is a statewide matter?”
“Yeah. Sometimes a task force can be mounted, joining elements of the involved departments, with state cops overseeing and directing. And they are real cops, Mike. Anyway, I can give it a shot.”
“Man, that would be terrific. That keeps me from getting sidetracked.”
“You mean, from looking for Sharron Wesley’s silent partner?”
I nodded, and dunked my Danish. I was getting my appetite back.
Pat was smiling. “Mike, I may have something for you on that score, too. According to my informants, both Bill Evans and Miami Bull are still in town.”
“Damn! That’s great. Where?”
“That I don’t know. Word is, there’s a big poker game going on, very high stakes, into its third day. They take an hour break every five hours to rest, eat, and hit the head. Then back at it.”
“Three days. May be winding down.”
“May be. I’d get right on this. If I hear something else, where can I get a hold of you?”
I gobbled the rest of the Danish, threw the coffee down, and got to my feet. “I’m heading to Louie Marone’s joint. After that, I have no idea. Can you catch the check? Next time’ll be my turn.”
“Sure,” he said wryly. “Like the last three times. Shoo, fly, shoo. My God, you go out to Long Island on vacation and I see more of you around town than I have for the last six months…”
But I was halfway to the door already. I looked back, tossed him a grin and a little salute, and he just shook his head and took one last bite of Danish.
***
Louie was having a chat with his bartender when I came in. Business was so so, but the real business here was the gambling upstairs, and this was late afternoon. Too early for that kind of action.
Today the big genial Italian in the ancient tux didn’t seem his usual happy self. He was damn near glum as he guided me to one end of the bar and we sat on two stools like any other patrons.
“I am a glad to see you, Mike.”
“Yeah, I’m glad to see you, too, Louie. Always.”
He frowned, almost as if he were suffering. “What happen between you and little Marion the other night?
No, no, I don’t mean to pry a into your business, Mike. But she is a nice girl, and she seems so sad today. What’s it they say? Out of sorts.”
I waved that off. “I just taught her that some men are immune to her charms. She better get used to it. She was bound to run into a grown-up sooner or later.”
“She’s a nice girl, Mike. She’s a nice to have around.”
“You got a crush on her yourself, Louie?”
That big mustached pan of his blushed like a school girl. “Mike… I’m a old enough to be her papa.”
“Yeah, but you’re not her papa. If she’s such a nice girl, why let her hang here like a glorified B-girl? She’s gonna get herself raped one of these days. Then see how ‘out of sorts’ she is.”
He shrugged elaborately. “What can I do? She’s my bookkeeper!”
“Not in the kind of dress I saw her in last night. She’d bust a seam taking a ledger down off a shelf. Look, I know that kid makes nice window dressing for you around this joint. But if you really value her, get her an eyeshade and some nice gray mannish business suit, have her pin her hair back, and stick her in a back room with a pencil.”
He shrugged. “You probably right, Mike. I don’t have a no crush on her, you unnerstan’. But I sure do like to look at her.”
“Looking’s free, Louie. That’s one of the great things about America. You have a chance to make a few phone calls for me?”
He nodded. “I did. Found some things out, like you ask. I write down some more names. Let me go get ’em for you.”
“Thanks, Lou… Bartender! Highball.”
The drink had barely come when Louie trundled back. He looked upset.
“Oh, Mike, she’s in a the back room.”
“Marion?”
He nodded. “She’s in a bad way, Mike. I tell her you was here and she say she wanna come out and talk to you, but… she start crying, and she can hardly stand up, she’s so upset.”
I gave him a disgusted look. “Upset or drunk?”
“Well, uh… both, Mike. She’s been hitting my private stock. She keep it up, she gonna kill herself.”
I grunted. “Oh, hell. You got those names for me?”
He did, written on a small sheet in a cramped hand, half a dozen names, numbers and addresses of high-rolling gamblers in the city who were likely frequenters of Sharron Wesley’s casino on the Island. I recognized four of them. Some damn good leads to track down.
But I said, “Look, there’s supposed to be a big high-stakes poker game going on somewhere in town. Probably at some hotel. I’m looking for Bill Evans and Miami Bull, and they’re supposed to be in it.”
His eyes opened wide and he nodded. “I hear about that game. Two guys in here late last night, after you was here? They were early drop-outs in that game. Too much action, they say. Thousands on every hand, Mike. Crazy how much.”
“You’re just jealous, Louie. So where’s the game?”
“They don’t mention that.”
“Can you find out?”
He cocked his head and gave me a look. “Can you drive a my Marion home? I don’t want her round here like this, Mike. Beautiful girl like that, with a snootful? Not so beautiful.”
I tapped him on the chest with a forefinger. “I’ll drive her home. You find that hotel for me.”
A grin blossomed under the skinny mustache in the fat face. “It’s a deal, Mike. I’ll call a you at Marion’s apartment.”
“No, I won’t be there that long. I’ll stop back.”
We left the bar and went through the archway where in Louie’s private den sat Marion, curled up in one of the tufted leather chairs with her skirt hiked up and showing a lot of leg. Not that the tight-fitting blue-silk jersey hid much more of her than, say, a coat of paint would.
I gave her shoulder a gentle shove.
She looked up at me with half-lidded dark-blue eyes. Her slack mouth became a smile and white teeth flashed, but the eyes stayed at half-mast and I could smell the Scotch on her without even leaning in.
“Mike! You came back. Louie said… said you came back…”
“Yeah, I came back. Let’s get you home.”
“Why?” she slurred. And that word was not easily slurred. “Is it late already?”
“Late enough. Can you put on your shoes?”
“No.” She gave me a bleary-eyed smile and nodded toward the heels on the floor near the chair. “Make me Cinderella. I wanna be Cinderella.”
I knelt like a damn prince and eased her little feet into the little dark-blue shoes, and holding onto a slender ankle and maybe a shapely calf wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to me. I am human. And male.
But she was soused, and even in a great-looking dame, that’s about as appealing as a Bowery bum’s breath.
So I got her to her feet and hauled her out of there. She was wobbly on those heels, and she made little squeals of protest now and then, but she came along for the ride. Making it up that gangplank of Louie’s was no picnic, but we got to the dry land of the sidewalk without either of us becoming a casualty.
The heap was parked right out front, and I loaded her in. She got settled into the passenger seat, curling up like a baby waiting to be born. She did not say a word on the ride to that renovated apartment house she lived in. She even snored a little.
Dusk had fallen and traffic lights and neons made soothing glows in the coming night, but I was too irritated to appreciate it. I had things to do. Escorting home a drunken little frill was not on my dance card.
But what the hell, Louie needed time to track down Bill Evans and Miami Bull, so I could stand to play chivalrous knight for a half hour or so. But when I walked her up the brownstone steps, an arm around her waist, those curves of hers, drunken or not, were brushing up against me in distracting ways. If chivalry wasn’t dead, neither was my libido.
I got her into her flower-chintz-strewn living room and asked her, “Can you stand, honey?”
“Sure I can stand. What am I, a cripple?”
I let go of her and she collapsed in a pile on the carpet.
“What you need,” I said, “is a nice cold shower.”
I got her around the waist again and practically dragged her into the bathroom. She did not protest. I wasn’t sure she was even conscious. There was no shower, though, just a tub. I sat her on the john and backed away cautiously, making sure she was perched there properly.
When she didn’t fall off on her keister, I turned on the water and made sure it got running nice and cold. Then I played prince again, taking off her shoes.
“Stand up,” I said, tossing the heels aside.
“Huh?” The half-lidded eyes didn’t seem to recognize me.
“Stand up, Marion. Gotta get that dress off you.”
She got to her feet, unsteady but she did it.
“Put your hands up,” I told her.
“Why? Is this a stick up?” It sounded like “schtick up,” which would have made me laugh if I was in a better mood. She pointed a finger at me and made shooting sounds like a kid playing cowboys and Indians.
“Marion,” I said scoldingly.
She pouted and put her hands up.
I tugged the dress up over her head. Beneath she wore only flimsy step-ins and an equally flimsy bra that gave her full, pert breasts no help. Not that they needed any.
She almost fell down, getting out of the step-ins. My face was in just the right position to collect evidence proving she was a real blonde. With a put-upon sigh, I got back up and reached around her to undo the bra. She stood there, a tipsy Venus, then the sound of rushing water turned me quickly to catch the bath just before it overflowed.
That was when she shoved me in.
I went in face first and was flopping around like a flounder on deck, but I had what the flounder wanted-all the water in the world, and when I got myself turned around, I was sitting in the tub with legs hanging over the side, my socks sopped in my soaked shoes, and the naked wench was leaning over with her h
ands on her knees and her breasts hanging like ripe fruit waiting to be plucked while she laughed and laughed and laughed.
“Now we’re even, sucker!” she said.
She wasn’t drunk at all!
I came clambering out of that tub after her and she yiped and then screeched a laugh, and then went running bare-ass back into the living room laughing and screaming and laughing, and I tackled her and we landed on the couch in a damp tangle.
“You little vixen,” I growled.
She was laughing her head off, laughing till she was crying. “You better get out of those wet clothes, mister! You’ll catch your death of cold.”
I got out of those clothes all right.
The lights stayed on and I was just this big damp cold creature getting warmed by the flame of her, her mouth hungry on mine, her tongue searching, flesh quivering under my hands, full and ripe and demanding. She was no virgin nor was she terribly experienced, though she did just fine, undulating, surging, our breathing building into a shout from me and a scream from her.
“Oh Mike,” she breathed. Her eyes were rolled back. “Mike… I’m drunk now… I’m drunk now, all right…”
We were under the covers in her bedroom. We were both naked. We had finished round one in the living room in a hurry. Round two had taken its own sweet time, and we were both tired and, speaking for myself anyway, very satisfied. Even if two hours had gone by with no detecting whatsoever, other than me finding out she was a natural blonde.
“Honey,” I said, “when you were out at that casino near Sidon-”
“Not that again,” she said, stealing the smoke, taking a drag on it, handing it back.
“Yes that. That’s the case I’m on. She’s dead, remember? Murdered. You mentioned that local deputy, Dekkert, getting fresh with you out there. You gave him the brush by way of a knee.”
“Sure. What of it?”
“Was he just getting fresh? Or do you think you were in danger?”
“Would he have forced himself on me? Maybe. But I just think he was a big damn lug who thought he was God’s gift. I can handle myself. Nobody gets in my pants without permission.”
Lady, go die (mike hammer) Page 13