He smiled. “What would you recommend? I’m not very hungry.”
“The pecan pie’s good. Our pies are fresh, we bake ’em ourselves.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but the pies were baked fresh by a local bakery that supplied several restaurants in the area.
“Let’s try the pecan pie then.”
Iris grinned. Walking away, ignoring Jerry Boyarchek’s stare, she told herself, For Chrissake, honey, don’t drop the pot.
She had seen the sandy-haired man before. He had stopped at the diner at least once during the past week for lunch, and another time for dinner. Each time he had been alone. She noticed that he wore a wedding ring, but he was eating out alone regularly, so what did that mean? A salesman on the road? He didn’t seem like the type.
He was … She groped unsuccessfully for the right word. It came to her when she brought him his wedge of pecan pie and he glanced up with his easy smile. Not Floyd’s leer or Jerry’s smirk, just a normal smile, as if they were already friends. Fit was the word. About as fit as a man could be.
Iris herself worked out at a beach area club. She punished her body to keep it leaner, firmer and, let’s face it, shapelier. For that very good reason she appreciated a man who took care of himself. This customer wasn’t handsome, not really, just a guy to glance at, with nothing broken or ugly. But the hands surrounding his coffee mug were large and strong, and she remembered now the way he had moved when he entered the diner and walked toward the counter or a booth. Thinking of it, she pictured a tight, hard ass, flat stomach, big hairy chest with swelling pecs. He moved like a goddam big cat, Iris thought.
She was busy for a while, working both the counter and the front window booths. By the time she scooped up the coffeepot again and started along the counter filling up half-empty mugs, Jerry and Floyd were leaving. Iris gave Jerry only a nod and Floyd the cold shoulder. The sandy-haired man pushed his coffee mug forward as she approached.
“How was the pie?” Iris asked brightly.
“Terrific.” Without taking his eyes off hers, he jerked his head toward the cash register, where Jerry, just turning away, glanced toward them as he headed for the door. “Friend of yours?”
“Not hardly.” Iris offered a sardonic grin. “My brother-in-law.”
“Ah, the brother-in-law,” the stranger answered, as if they shared some secret knowledge about brothers-in-law.
For a moment his eyes continued to hold hers, light gray eyes behind the blue lenses, and she felt her heartbeat actually quicken.
Flustered, Iris kept busy for the next few minutes. When she looked up once more, the stranger was standing by the cash register. She took his check and changed a five-dollar bill. While she counted the change he said, “Thanks for the tip on the pie … Iris.” His glance lingered on the name tag on her T-shirt. She didn’t mind at all having him stare at her chest. He smiled. “See you again.”
He walked out. His khaki pants fit snugly across his buttocks.
THE RAIDERS WERE playing the Dallas Cowboys on TV that Sunday. By the time Ralph Beringer returned to his sublet apartment from the diner he had missed most of the first half. He clicked on the television, retrieved a cold beer and a bag of nachos from the kitchen, and eased back in the La-Z-Boy recliner in the living room.
He remembered other times, sitting in a chair with broken springs, Saturday and Sunday afternoons when a game was on TV, his feet up on a dirty ottoman, and having them summarily pushed off the ottoman. “Are you gonna sit there all day? There’s work to be done around here.“
But it wasn’t work she had in mind. It was sending him out of the room because one of her “callers” was expected soon or already drooling at the door.
“And don’t come back till I tell you.”
Just before halftime Troy Aikman hit Michael Irvin for a TD on a crossing pattern, putting Dallas ahead by seven points. Beringer liked the Raider’s bad boy image, but he was even more impressed by the Cowboy’s cool professionalism. Trash talk, shirttails hanging out and late hits didn’t get it done against the real pros.
Talk was cheap. Threats and intimidation went only so far. The time was coming for sweet little Glenda and her shack-up, Lindstrom, to find that out. As far as Beringer was concerned, Lindstrom was not Glenda’s husband. The divorce was an aberration he had never accepted.
Watching the rest of the game and working his way through a six-pack of beer, he missed whole sections of the action when his mind strayed off. Instant replays of another kind. He keenly regretted not having had more time with Natalie, under better conditions.
She had got him hot, just watching her there in the library. It was not only her sensual looks. He was struck by her haughty, superior air. Slyly observing her, he had felt the desire to take her down a peg. The desire had become an imperative when he heard her name called out. The name was like the quarterback’s play-calling signal: Hut, hut … go for it!
He could have blown everything. He knew he should have circled around her if only for a day or two, biding his time, watching and waiting for the right moment. Instead he had plunged recklessly ahead. Pure luck that it had worked out so well. She had fought him for a bit, as he had expected, and he would have enjoyed playing out that scene with her at length, but he couldn’t take the risk. She might have started to make noise. After a couple of solid punches with the sleeve of steel balls in his fist, the resistance had gone out of her. He remembered dragging the sweatshirt over her head, and a flash of naked breasts, the dark nipples staring up at him.
He had hidden her behind the brush well away from the footpath while he brought his car around. The Taurus this time. Then into the hills, where he found a deserted spot and parked. He really didn’t remember much after that. When he started to hit them, to give them what they’d asked for, everything blurred behind a red film. It had been different with Edie because he had had plenty of time, time to enjoy her and to relish her terror. Too bad it had to be so quick with Natalie. She had deserved better from him.
Next time, Beringer thought.
Iris.
Not yet, he thought. It was tempting to make her next in line. The waitress had a body that wouldn’t quit; she was a genuine bitch, pushing her boobs in his face like that, and she had the right name. The name excited him.
But he had to be more careful. He couldn’t let himself spin out of control again. Not after all his years of waiting and planning for this time. Cool it for a few days. Iris could wait her turn, she wasn’t going anywhere. And he still had to find one more of the chosen. In the meantime he could ratchet up the pressure.
Did Glenda have a clue yet? Did she even remember that promise he had sent her from Germany? (A mistake; he never should have mailed the note in his own handwriting, but nothing could be done about that now.) Did she have any inkling at all that the coeds were for her?
Late in the fourth quarter, the Raiders down by ten, they kicked a field goal to narrow the gap to one touchdown. As they lined up to try the obvious onside kick, Beringer watched without emotion. Desperation time, 100-to-l shot. You should never let it come down to that, where you had to trust to a lucky bounce.
Stick with the game plan. Should he go afield for the next one? It was tempting. There would certainly be less risk. After two killings security on the college campus would be tight, making it harder to isolate another college queen, especially one who had to bring a singular gift to the game.
But the added risk gave a brighter edge to the fantasy Beringer was playing out. As a participant in the great game of Life and Death, he was now calling the plays. Besides, he had established a campus link to Dave Lindstrom, and he had something else in mind for the professor …
The onside kick failed, as Beringer had known it would. He watched the Cowboys run out the clock. Aikman, cool and efficient, went down on his knee for the last two meaningless plays as the seconds ran down. Watching the quarterback, Beringer reviewed his own actions over the past ten days. Not always retaining his cool, nevertheles
s he had made no serious mistakes. He had gotten away with grabbing Natalie impetuously. No one had seen him.
What about the car? Was there any chance the Taurus had been noticed where he had it parked near the campus? Maybe he ought to stay with the Buick for the next week. When he had signed the sublease agreement for the apartment he had not used his real name. Not that he expected the car to be traced back, but even if it was, all he had to do was disappear. Mr. No Name. The mystery man.
BERINGER WAS STILL sitting there in the La-Z-Boy recliner when the first edition of the nightly news came on. For the second night in a row the lead story was the shocking discovery of a second murdered San Carlos College coed. A reporter was shown standing in the paved service area, with the dumpster in the background, reporting live although there was little to be seen other than the familiar yellow police tape defining the crime scene. The camera cut to a shot from the previous morning. Beringer’s reaction quickened with interest when one of the investigating homicide detectives was shown arriving at the scene, warding off reporters’ questions. Braden was his name. Brushed past the media vultures like a tugboat plowing through a flock of squawking seagulls. Tough-looking son of a bitch, Beringer thought with a grin.
Maybe he ought to give the homicide guy a little push in the right direction?
No, Beringer decided after a moment’s thought. That wasn’t necessary. He’d get there on his own … right where Ralph wanted him to go.
Twenty-Two
EDWARD BATCHELOR PRENTISS walked the length of the block past the civic center, studiously avoiding a glance at the police station, as if his errand were taking him to the public library in the next block, or to city hall to pay his water bill. He was a middle-aged man wearing well-tailored gray worsted slacks and a white cableknit sweater. His hair was full, longer than the current fashion, silvery gray and brushed back from his temples. Rather distinguished, a fact of which Prentiss was usually aware.
Today his thoughts were less vain, less fixed upon the figure he cut than upon his anxiety. And his dilemma. A full professor with tenure at San Carlos College, in line to become chairman of the history department, respected and even admired by his colleagues, he was suddenly facing the possibility of a career disintegrating in ruins.
At the corner he hesitated, then crossed the street and started back. In the little park directly across from city hall he paused, watching the birds flutter around an old man on a bench who doled out seed from a plastic bag.
A police car pulled out of the parking lot behind the police station and drove past him. Prentiss watched it go by, aware of cold cop scrutiny.
What would such men think of him? He shivered, touched by a nameless chill. He knew little of them, and they knew even less of a man like him. What would he say to them?
I knew Edith Foster. She was in one of my classes. She flaunted herself, made it clear she was available. You have to understand, I’m
a married man, a respectable man, a husband and father, but she was unbelievably sexy, beautiful, she made me a little crazy.
I see. Were you with her that Friday night, Dr. Prentiss?
Well, yes, we met at The Pelican, but … we didn’t go anywhere. Before that, four or five times, we went to a motel in Santa Ana. It’s not that far, and no one would see us there. But it was over between us, you see. That’s what Edie wanted to tell me that night. I think she was … growing tired of me. After only a month.
Did you become angry, Doctor? Is that why you attacked her?
Impossible! Prentiss told himself. He could never subject himself to that sort of inquisition.
When the news of Edith Foster’s death broke a week ago, Prentiss had been stunned, initially disbelieving. Then he became terrified. What if someone had seen him talking to Edie that night at the coffeehouse, or leaving with her? They had been circumspect whenever they met in public, but what if she had talked to one of her friends about him—named him? His life would be destroyed. His marriage … Martha would never tolerate the public scandal. He suspected that Martha knew of his occasional—quite infrequent, really—dalliances with twenty-year-old students, but nothing had ever been said. She had sensibly looked the other way. But this … she wouldn’t be able to ignore it.
Nor would the school administration. He would be disgraced. He would lose everything. And the point was, he had done nothing! He was innocent of the girl’s murder—knew nothing about it.
It must have happened after he left her at the Alpha Beta parking lot. Angry, yes, mortified that the little tart had tired of him before he grew weary of her … while he was still besotted over her, in fact. But she had been alive and well when he left her. He had driven straight home, poured himself a large glass of Glenlivet, closeted himself in his den until he was able to deal with his humiliation, anger and, yes, grief …
The killer must have picked her up there in the parking lot, or followed her when she left. Or—he wouldn’t put it past her—Edie had picked him up, whoever he was, and got more than she bargained for.
That last thought was uncharitable. Nettled with himself, Prentiss turned away from the bird man and his flock. He continued along the street past the police station. The point was—he adjusted his thoughts—he had absolutely nothing to do with the poor girl’s murder. He couldn’t help the police find her killer. What was he supposed to do—destroy his reputation, his position, his life in a quixotic gesture? All to no purpose?
After a week of torment Edward Prentiss had determined to remain silent. If anyone had known he was fucking Edith Foster, they obviously would have come forward or the police would have come knocking at his door. He was out of it. It had nothing to do with him.
Then came the second killing.
He didn’t know the girl, Natalie Rothleder. As far as he could recall, she had never been in any of his classes. But her death shook him badly, almost as much as Edie’s murder. Prentiss regarded himself as a respectable citizen. He was vociferously Republican, in favor of the death penalty and the three-strikes law, strongly opposed to the progressive criminalization of American society under the liberals. How could he then remain silent? If he had any knowledge whatever of Edie Foster that would help the police to find the murderer of two young women, surely it was incumbent upon him to come forward.
That realization had brought him downtown this morning. Now, at the end of the long block across the way from the civic center, Prentiss stood irresolute. One hand nervously combed his silver hair back from his temples.
If he didn’t come forward, he thought, and he was eventually linked with Edie, serious questions would be raised. But after more than a week that risk seemed diminished. And didn’t a second and similar murder, strongly indicating the hand of a serial killer, prove that what had happened to Edie had nothing to do with him?
He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t make his legs carry him across the street to the police station. Couldn’t give himself up in the vague hope that something he said might help find the killer.
It wasn’t that he was cold or indifferent to the fate of those two innocent young women. God in heaven, he had cared for Edie! He couldn’t think of her, that firm, nubile body, the unblemished texture of her skin, those exquisite long legs, without breaking out in a sweat. But she was dead. Nothing he could do would bring her back.
She had chosen her own fate. All he could do was go on.
He glanced at his watch. He had a lecture to give in less than an hour. As he shot the sleeve of his jacket and looked up, a couple climbed out of a station wagon across the way in the public parking area in front of the police station. The man, tall and slender, looked familiar. He said something to the woman, whose body language was stiff, angry and determined. Prentiss watched her with a certain admiration as she stormed up the steps as if leading a charge, the man hurrying to keep up even with his longer strides.
Prentiss did so admire a handsome woman!
His car, a silver Lexus, was parked in a city lot another block away. H
e walked there briskly, not looking back, feeling almost lightheaded with the release of his burden of guilt. His distinctive good looks drew more than one approving glance.
DETECTIVE LINDA PEREZ, promoted to Detective/Third less than four months ago, handled most domestic complaints investigations that came to the attention of the San Carlos PD. It often seemed to her that her role was more that of a marriage counselor than a policewoman. And at age twenty-nine, once divorced, survivor of three more or less disastrous love affairs interspersed between long stretches when she might as well have been living in a convent, she didn’t exactly consider herself overqualified to give advice on domestic relations.
The fights she could handle. The reports of abuse she met head-on, always giving the woman the same advice: Get out while you can. Run. Don’t even look back. Few of the victims ever listened.
The couple seated across from Linda’s desk this morning had a different complaint. The husband was lean, quiet, soft-spoken—a gentle man more worried about his wife than about the problem that had brought them to the station house. If Linda knew anything at all about couples, this man was not an abuser … but apparently the wife’s first husband had been.
Linda glanced down at the Incident Report. Ralph Beringer, she had written on the form. Sandy hair. Six feet, two hundred pounds. Mid-thirties. Might be wearing an air force uniform. His ex-wife—now Glenda Lindstrom—had not seen him in eight years, so he might have changed some. Always wore glasses and favored tinted lenses. No known scars or distinguishing marks.
“What can you do?” the woman asked.
Linda read the tension in her posture and around her eyes. She was still in control but she was being pushed toward the edge.
“The truth is, Mrs. Lindstrom … until he actually does something, there is nothing we can do.”
“He’s threatened us! He’s made harassing phone calls. He’s stalked my children!”
“According to what you’ve told me, he hasn’t made any direct threats. And these phone calls … except for the first one, when he spoke to his son, the caller has not actually identified himself.”
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