Vinda brushed his hand across his jaw and, in a flat, emotionless voice, asked, “Who put the kibosh on the story?”
An impish smile turned down Soothsayer’s lower lip, revealing crooked yellow teeth. He reached out and slid the ace of spades from the first file, took out his pen, and wrote a name across the card. He slid the card across to Vinda. “Small world, isn’t it, Lou?”
TWENTY-ONE
Salsa music could be heard coming from inside the restaurant on the first floor of a tenement; a sputtering neon sign identified it as La Capital. The greenish purple neon letters threw light on a filthy, melting bank of snow by the curb.
Detective Adriene Agueda parked her six-year-old Volvo on Roosevelt Avenue, and watched as Detective Joan Hagstrom got out of her ten-year-old Honda across the street from Fitzgerald’s, Otto Holman’s place of business.
Hagstrom slid out of her car and walked to the corner. Watching her approach, Agueda rolled down her window. Hagstrom reached into her pocketbook and took out her police credentials and passed them through the window to Agueda.
“You sure you want to go through with this, Joan?”
“I’m sure,” Hagstrom said, unclipping her in-skirt holster and handing it to Agueda. Then, keeping her hands out of sight, she slipped a compact, heavy object into the pocket of her coat.
“What if Holman’s not inside?” Agueda said, taking the holstered weapon and putting it under the seat.
“Then we’ll come back. See ya,” Hagstrom said, walking off.
Two drunks sat on stools next to each other while the bartender leaned on the bar, paging through a skin magazine.
A gust of wind heralded Hagstrom’s entrance. Her black wool coat flared out at the hem, and her spiked heels made her appear taller than she actually was. Her gray skirt was split to the knees, and her white silk blouse gave ample proof of a curvaceous body. She wore black panty hose with a silky sheen. She managed to look both classy and sexy, a novel combination for this neighborhood.
Moving up to the bar, she took a fast look around and spotted a man with closely cropped gray hair over in the raised area. Putting just the right note of distress in her voice, she thrust a dollar bill at the bartender and blurted, “My car broke down on me. I need change to call Triple-A.”
“Sure, honey,” the bartender said, taking the money.
She unbuttoned her coat and let it fall open. One of the drunks looked up at her in befuddled amazement and announced to the bartender in a hoarse voice, “Charlie, you’ve got the carriage trade up here tonight.”
She smiled at him, took the change, and walked over to the pay telephone. She carefully wiped the receiver with a handkerchief, and then gingerly picked it up. Looking down at her membership card, she dialed emergency road service and read off her identification number to the operator. Looking at the bartender, she asked, “What’s the address here?”
The bartender told her; she repeated it to the person at the other end. She casually put one foot on the bar rail, her long leg peeking out from her skirt, her breasts full against the silk of her blouse, the nipples showing darkly through its sheerness.
Holman, sipping malt whiskey, watched her from the shadows. He was immediately turned on by her legs, and began to imagine what it would be like to slide his hand up their smooth, rounded warmth until he reached her pussy. This one was totally unlike the neighborhood bimbos he occasionally waltzed into the storage room, bent over a case of beer, and fucked. This one had real class. He fixed his lustful eyes on her breasts and called, “Hello.”
Joan turned her head slowly in the direction of the new voice.
“Over here,” he called.
The bartender went back to his magazine, and the two drunks stared morosely ahead. One abruptly rested his face down on the bar, his cheek bathing in a pool of spilled booze.
“Where are you?” she asked, moving tentatively toward the man with the closely cropped hair.
“Here,” he said, standing up so the light revealed his features. She recognized him from his latest federal mug shot. Keeping her distance, she regarded him suspiciously.
“Your car broke down?”
“Yes. I’ve got help coming.”
He sipped his malt whiskey, put down the glass, looked up at her, and announced, “If road service doesn’t show in a little while, I’ll take a look at your car. I know a lot about fixing automobiles.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I’m sure it won’t be necessary.” She pointedly turned her back, knowing that her cold-shouldering him would be a sufficient challenge for his overblown ego. Several long moments elapsed in the silent bar before he slipped into position next to her.
“I’m Otto Holman, and I’d like to buy you a drink.”
“No, thanks, I’m driving,” she responded coldly. She looked around as if she regretted having come in to get help.
Holman, wearing camouflage fatigues and a green T-shirt, saw her anxiety and attempted to reassure her. “Not to worry, you’re safe here with me. I own this joint. Nobody’s going to get out of line while I’m around.”
“I don’t doubt it, but …”
“What’ll it be?”
She smiled uncertainly and then slipped off her coat, holding it over her arm as if she were ready to leave at any moment. In a tentative voice she ordered, “Dewars and soda, little ice.”
Watching him undress her with his mean gray eyes, she thought that Adriene was right on the money; this animal was most definitely a grade-A scumbag type. But she followed him over to his table.
When he handed her drink to her, Hagstrom looked at his wrinkled fatigues and asked, “You in the Army or something?”
“Once upon a time, yeah. Special Forces, ’Nam.”
She looked at him with an expression of sudden respect, her breasts moving slightly under her blouse.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” She took a big swallow of her drink. “Well, I lost somebody over there.”
“Jeeze, I’m sorry. Somebody real close?”
“My big brother. I was only ten when he was killed. He was Army too. Oh, sorry—my name’s Joan.”
She had set it up perfectly. Holman’s guard was down; all he was thinking about was how to get over with her. He didn’t pause to wonder why Santa had dropped this present in his lap. Hagstrom slowly drew him out. It was easy to get him to start telling stories, tales she knew were pure fantasy.
Three drinks later he leaned forward and confided, “When I was in ’Nam I did things … well, things I’m not too proud of now.”
“Did you ever kill anyone up close?”
He drank some whiskey before whispering, “Yeah.”
“Did it …?”
“What?”
“Excite you?”
“I never told anyone this before, but, yeah, it did. A few times I even got off on it.”
She lowered her eyes. “I think I understand.”
“Why? Does violence turn you on?”
She turned away and said shyly, “Sometimes.”
“Do you get off on bondage?”
She looked defiantly at him and announced, “Yes.” Then, as if appalled at her own words, she blurted out, “I have to go.”
“Joan, wait. Please.” He tugged her gently back into her chair. “Joan, once, maybe twice during my lifetime I’ve met a woman who I found exciting, someone I wanted to know better, someone I wanted to get it on with. But? I never had the courage to take command of the moment. And then?” He shrugged, let his shoulders sag. “She was gone, and out of my life for good, and I ended up always regretting not having been able to express my true feelings at that moment.” He began caressing her wrist. “You’re a very exciting woman, and I don’t want to lose this moment with you.”
When she said nothing, but remained sitting, Holman gave the bartender a signal. In a few minutes she and Holman were alone in the dimly lit bar. The two drunks had been shoved out the door by the grinning bartender,
who then discreetly vanished into the back room.
Holman’s fingers made tiny circles on her wrist and then suddenly gripped it hard. He gradually increased the pressure. “Am I making you wet?”
She moaned, “Yes,” thinking, What an utter asshole.
“Let’s get it on right here and now. The two of us.”
She looked at him boldly, her eyes falling to his fingers holding her wrist in an iron grip. “You might not enjoy the same things that I do.”
“I bet I will,” he assured her.
“I’m into submission.”
“So am I.” He leaned up out of his chair and kissed her, his disgusting tongue probing deep inside her mouth.
She nudged him back into his seat. “I need you to be my slave.”
Leaning back in her seat, she brought up her legs, slid her hands under her skirt, and removed her panty hose. She got up and circled him, dancing the hose over his head and face, at the same time toying with the bristles of his short hair with her free hand. When she was behind him, she stopped and slipped the crotch of the panty hose over his head. “Can you smell me?” she asked, leaning over his shoulder and lifting up his arm.
“Yes, I can smell you and I love it.”
Pulling a sour face, she said, “I’m glad,” and with one leg of the panty hose she tied his wrist to his neck. She did the same with the other arm. Stepping back, she admired her work. Rambo tethered to panty hose. She wished she had a photo of him for next year’s Chippendale’s calendar. Lifting up her chair, she set it down so that she would be facing him. She lowered herself down and, lifting her skirt above her knees, arched one leg over his. She moved her hand erotically up her leg, and pretended to be masturbating. “Can you see what I’m doing?”
“Yes,” he gasped. “Tell me what it feels like.”
“I’m all moist and hot. Ahh! Ahh!” She suddenly slapped him in the face with her free hand.
“Again! Hurt me.”
She hit him, a real solid blow on his chest. “Talk to me about dangerous things you’ve done.”
“I assassinated five people in ’Nam.”
“Oh, yes. It feels so good. Make me come, Otto. Make me come.” She moaned, lolling her head, her face strained by simulated passion. “Slave. Tell me what it feels like to kill.” She punched him again. His erection made a disgusting bulge in his trousers.
“I’ll tell you,” he grunted, “but first I want you to take out my cock and suck on it.”
“Later, slave. Later.” She punched him again; this time her heart was really in it.
Holman’s labored breathing filled the silence in the deserted bar. Hagstrom’s head lolled back, and her fingers worked frantically under her skirt.
“Open my fly.”
“Later. Tell me what it’s like to watch someone die. Quick, before I come.” She reached down and dug her nails into his crotch.
He moaned and blurted, “Someone planted a bomb under me.”
“A bomb!” She squeezed hard. “Talk to me about it. How did it feel?”
“Scary. Exciting. I almost got off.”
She moaned, digging her nails deeper. “Who did it? Why? Tell me!”
“They wanted to know. Why do you care about any of that?”
She felt his erection wilting as Holman tried to free himself from her panty hose.
“You’ve broken the spell,” she said, getting up and grabbing her coat.
“Wait,” he said, ripping free of the restraints and pulling her back into her chair.
“I love it when you’re violent,” she said. She licked her lips slowly, invitingly. “Do you like lap dancing?”
“I’ve never done it,” Holman admitted, his suspicion overcome by renewed hope.
“It’s great,” she said. Raising her skirt, she straddled his lap with her legs and sat down on top of him. She rubbed her body over him, moving slowly, purposefully, her head arched back, her breathing becoming more and more labored.
“What are you doing to me?” he moaned. “It’s wonderful. Are you coming?”
“I don’t think I can now.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break the spell for you.”
She didn’t respond, but continued to glide her body across his, circling, pumping, groaning. She snapped forward, sliding her arms around him, clutching him to her, her head on his shoulder. She bit his neck, then his ear, nibbled on his earlobe.
His moans sounded almost infantile. “Bite me hard,” he begged.
Instead of complying, she suddenly stood up and dropped her skirt and panties on the floor. Her eyes blazing, she faced Holman, who had worked one hand free and clumsily tried to grab her with it. Avoiding his hand, she reached into the pocket of her coat lying on the next table and pulled out a 9-mm Beretta automatic. In one move she whirled on Holman, slammed the gun against the side of his face, and then jammed it into his surprised mouth.
“You love pain, don’t you?” she whispered, her face mere inches from his terrified eyes that stared through the sheer panty hose she had stretched over the upper part of his face. “Time to play, Otto. Time to die!”
Holman didn’t even notice the pool of urine forming on the seat of his chair. He sat perfectly still, afraid that the slightest movement would encourage her to pull the trigger. He could taste the oily metal of the gun, feel the trickle of blood from the cut in his gums made by its barrel.
A small voice somewhere in the back of her mind told Hagstrom that she was not only breaking every rule in the Patrol Guide, but she was also giving an Academy Award-level performance to a captive audience of one. “Tell me about the bomb, Otto.”
Involuntarily, Holman’s body began to shudder and he tried to push some words out past the barrel of the gun. Easing it out of his mouth, she pointed just to the side of his head and squeezed the trigger slowly, while her free hand worked frantically between her legs. The gun went off with the effect of a crash of thunder in the deserted bar.
Holman screamed in terror, and the bartender flew out of the back room.
Aiming the gun at him, Hagstrom shouted wildly, “Fuck off, asshole, unless you want to play too!”
Charlie held up his hands and hurriedly backed through the swinging door to the kitchen.
“Please, lady,” Holman begged, tears running down his cheeks. “Listen—it’s no big deal. This guy I used to know. Calls himself Dinny’O. He came here.”
Hagstrom put the muzzle of the gun against the center of Holman’s forehead, looked directly into his eyes, and said, “Who? You telling me the truth?”
“Christ, yes. The guy’s real name is Frank Griffin. We were stuntmen back in L.A., years ago. I swear to God, I don’t know what the fuck he’s into, but he’s got heavy people after him.”
Hagstrom allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. Keeping the gun trained on Holman, she awkwardly pulled up her skirt and slipped into her coat. She could see from Holman’s expression that he was beginning to put it all together. “You better believe it, lover. And I’m one of them.”
When she reached her car she was trembling from reaction, shocked at what she had found out she was capable of doing. Part of her had gotten off on it, enjoyed it.
Agueda came over and slipped a comforting arm around her shoulders. “How’d it play?”
Hagstrom, feeling a growing sense of shame, knew that she could never tell her friend what had really happened. She smiled wanly and said, “Maybe it played a little too well.”
Surrounded by the deserted financial and governmental heart of New York City, the Big Building was a glowing beehive.
On the eleventh floor, detectives hurried back and forth between units. In the Joint Robbery Task Force area the television was tuned to “Shopping at Home,” on which a saleswoman praised the qualities of a Rolex lookalike. Detectives typed reports and conducted telephone interviews. In the Special Fraud Squad area, a known Hispanic confidence man heatedly denied “kiting” a losing Lotto ticket and selling it to a Wall
Street lawyer. “I nid my lawyer, man. You guys are a pen eendi ass,” the unlucky flimflam artist whined.
Vinda, alone in his office, perched on the edge of his desk, staring at the blackboard. The Lucas-Johnston shootout had turned his investigation topsy-turvy. Now he wasn’t sure whether he should be searching for a psycho who killed randomly, or for a killer who operated with malice and forethought. He looked at a note that Moose had left on his desk: Lou, Malcolm Webster telephoned. Will call back in A.M.
He checked the time: 0017. Wednesday. A new day had begun, and he was still working. He loved it; he hated it. He looked at the telephone and thought of the last time he had spoken to Jean. He had called her to see how she was feeling. “Pretty good,” she had said. “I’m watching Now, Voyager.”
“You love that movie, don’t you?”
“It’s one of my favorites,” she had said. “Wait. Here comes the best part. Paul Henreid is lighting their cigarettes. He’s handing Bette Davis hers.” Jean parroted, “‘Why ask for the moon when we have the stars?’”
He had heard the theme music in the background and visualized the camera panning up to the moon. Jean had died that night.
He looked out at the moon. “I miss you, honey.” He slumped wearily into his chair, flipped open the case folder, and saw the crime-scene photo of Valarie Griffin’s body splayed under a blanket, and he knew with a cop’s instinct that her death was the linchpin of the case.
Veronica Place cut across Erasmus Street and continued past the convent of Holy Cross Church, a house of worship renowned for its flamboyant tracery, stained-glass windows, and wide buttresses sunk deep into the Brooklyn earth.
Two large oaks shaded the convent’s façade, their barren branches etching shadows across the nunnery. A footpath ran alongside both sides of the convent and met in the rear where it separated, connecting the priory with the church and the school.
The grounds were dark, deserted; a wind gust sent small eddies of snow whirling over the surrounding blacktop. In the back of the church, the silhouette of a man loomed in the shadows.
Worthington studied the convent, a wide three-story brick building with rows of five windows on each of the three floors; drainpipes came down at both ends of the gutters. Some of the windows on the second and third floors were slightly open.
Exceptional Clearance Page 18