Exceptional Clearance

by William Caunitz

  “No,” Agueda said.

  Vinda continued to stare down the corridor, a jumble of different thoughts racing through his mind. “We need a photograph of Griffin,” he said.

  “Holman told me that Griffin used to be a stuntman,” Hagstrom said.

  “Get over to the Screen Actors Guild,” Vinda told Hagstrom. “See if they have a photograph of Griffin. I’m starting to doubt the accuracy of that composite.”

  “But Worthington saw the guy loitering near the dressing rooms,” Moose said.

  “Did he?” Vinda said. “And if he did, it doesn’t mean that he was the doer.” Vinda wondered how Hagstrom had got Holman to talk, and was tempted to ask her, but after brief reflection he decided that he was probably better off not knowing, and did not ask. He said to Hagstrom, “Holman conned me when I spoke to him. He might have conned you, too.”

  “Oh, I really don’t think so,” she said, her cheeks coloring and her eyes avoiding his.

  The Tudor City supermarket on First Avenue was not crowded at ten o’clock in the morning. The fruit-and-vegetable man was busy unpacking produce, taking his time arranging his wares so that they appealed to the eye. Apples had a high polish; grapefruits were pyramided so that bruised skins did not show. All the leafy vegetables had been wetted down.

  The lady behind the appetizer counter wore latex gloves as she culled overaged fish and cold cuts from the display case.

  Packers replenished shelves.

  Michael Worthington ambled along the aisle, pushing a shopping cart. He grabbed a box of Tampax down off a shelf and tossed it into the cart. He threw in Q-tips and cotton balls, and pushed the cart over to the appetizer counter. “Morning,” he said to the woman working the counter.

  “Morning, Mr. Worthington,” the woman named Mary said.

  Bending to examine the contents of the display case, Worthington said, “Valarie loves belly lox.”

  “Fresh this morning.”

  “I’ll take a quarter-pound.”

  Mary picked up a long, thin knife and sliced off slices. Wrapping the fish in white paper, she asked, “Will there be anything else?”

  “A chub and a quarter-pound of cream cheese and chives.”

  Going about filling his order, she asked, “How is your wife?”

  “She’s good today. In fact, we’re going to take a drive out to Jones Beach. Valarie loves to watch the ocean in the winter. She can sit for hours watching the surf.”

  “I know,” she said longingly. “I love it too. It’s been a long time since I’ve visited the ocean. I’m trapped here in the city.”

  “How’s your husband?”

  “Captain Marvel is considering prying himself away from his soaps and looking for a job. Humph! I should live so long.”

  “Things’ll get better.”

  “Only when I muster the courage to make them better,” she said, handing him his order.

  Worthington went up to the checkout counter and paid his bill. As he was about to leave, he spotted the rack of supermarket tabloids. One of the headlines proclaimed, WEREWOLF MARRIED TO NUN IN RELIGIOUS CEREMONY. He pulled the paper from the rack and paid the cashier, saying, “My wife loves to read this garbage.”

  The cashier took his money and looked at him inquiringly. “Do you think Elvis might still be alive?”

  “Could be,” he said, and walked out of the store, going next door to pick up Valarie’s dry cleaning.

  Upon arriving home, he hung her cleaning in her closet, and stacked her hygiene articles with all the other unopened ones on the top shelf of the closet. Going past his eternally praying wife, he kissed her on the head and said, “I’ll make breakfast.” In the kitchen he put the food inside the crowded refrigerator, making room by dumping some of the old stuff into a plastic garbage bag.

  He put the coffee on and then went into the bathroom, took off his shirt, and examined the scratches Kate Coswell had made on his shoulders and back. He took out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and swabbed them. “Bitch!”

  That done, he patted on more after-shave and went back into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Ten minutes later he walked into the bedroom carrying a tray. He put it down on the bed and sat.

  After spreading cream cheese and chives over half a bagel, he placed a slice of lox on it and took a bite. Glancing over at his wife kneeling on her prayer stool, he smiled and said, “It went well last night, Val. I sent the Eternal One a nun, a real one this time. We’ll be safe for a while now.”

  A mood of desolation suddenly overcame him. “I wonder if He will ever forgive me for taking you away from Him?”

  The telephone on the nightstand rang. Leaping off the bed, he snapped the receiver up to his ear.

  “Morning, Michael.”

  “And how is the world’s reigning movie queen on this fine morning?”

  Jessica Merrill, wearing silk bikini underpants and an oversized T-shirt bearing a teddy bear logo front and back, coiled in the corner of the bed with a telephone stuck to her ear. “I’m fine, Michael.”

  “Do you still have your police bodyguards following you around?”

  “Yes, damn it. I told my agent to get rid of them. They’re parked outside my apartment right now, waiting for me to leave. I had to sneak out by the service entrance last night.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At a friend’s in the East Village. Michael, can we meet for coffee? I need to talk to you.”

  “Meet me at four o’clock in Tudor City Park.” He hung up.

  Jessica slammed the phone down.

  “Well?” Laura Steward asked. She was wearing a yellow silk kimono and standing by the window in the tiny apartment’s bedroom, staring across Third Street at the men’s homeless shelter.

  “I’m meeting him late this afternoon.”

  “Oh, Jessica, you’ve made me so happy.” Laura ran over to her friend and hugged her. “You’re very good to me.”

  Reaching up, Jessica caressed her friend’s face. Laura untied her robe and, with a shrug of her shoulders, allowed it to slide from her body. She watched as Jessica’s eyes devoured her, and smiled when she saw her gleaming lips part. Jessica reached up and glided her hand through Laura’s triangle of tightly knit curls, slipping one finger between her slightly parted legs, ever so gently stroking her. Laura took hold of her friend’s hand and brought it up to her mouth, licking her wet finger, and, looking into her eyes, promised, “Now I’m going to be good to you.”

  “Look at the clowns!” Worthington said contemptuously to Valarie, as he spread cream cheese on the other half of the bagel. The television showed the cameras panning over Veronica Place, while the voice-over gave the grisly details of the murder. A close-up featured the new police commissioner promising an imminent arrest.

  Worthington laughed. Then he saw the group of detectives standing behind the commissioner, on top of the convent stoop. They were the ones from Rue St. Jacques: Vinda, Moose, Marsella; they were the ones who wanted to take his Valarie away from him. He got up off the bed and took a Mini Mag-Lite off the night table.

  Hurrying out into the foyer, he slammed open the hall closet and pushed aside coats, making a hole. That done, he stepped inside and knelt on the floor. Turning on the Mag-Lite, he directed the beam to the molding. Flush with the wood, two hinges, camouflaged with oyster white paint, attached a fake panel to the wall. Standing up, he directed the light to the top part of the panel, then reached up on the closet shelf and took down a grapefruit knife that he kept there. He inserted the knife into the thin vertical line just below the shelf, and pried off the panel. He leaned it up against the wall.

  The secret compartment contained five shelves neatly stacked with an assortment of pyrotechnic devices, Claymore mines, grenades, bars of Semtex, detonators, and two Heckler & Koch machine pistols. One end of the shelves contained stacked boxes of illegal exploding bullets.

  Worthington, his hands firmly planted on his hips, surveyed his private armory with satisfaction. “O
l’ Dinny’O knows how to deal with the likes of them.”

  The fourth-floor corridors of the east wing of Kings County Hospital were clogged with beds. Emaciated AIDS patients gazed dully at the people passing by. Stepping out of the oversized elevator, Vinda was struck by the look of utter despair etched on their sunken faces.

  At the end of the wing, three semiprivate rooms were kept in reserve for injured police, fire, and correction officers.

  Police Officer Lucy Seaver shared her room with a female correction officer who had suffered a compound fracture of the left arm trying to subdue a flipped-out junkie.

  As Vinda and the two women detectives made their way down the hallway toward Seaver’s room, they spotted the group of off-duties milling about. Police Officer Vinny Cutrone, Brooklyn South’s chunky PBA trustee, was busy loudly complaining about the Job. When he saw Vinda and the others, he pushed away from the off-duties and greeted Vinda. “How ya doin’, Lou?” Cutrone’s hands were constantly in motion when he talked.

  “How is she?” Vinda asked.

  “In a lotta pain,” the trustee said. “And I’m gonna tell ya sump-’en else too, I’m gettin’ fuckin’ tired of gonna cops’ funerals.”

  “Me too,” Vinda said, asking, “What did the doctors say?”

  “What did dey say? Dey said what dey always say, dey don’t know. She’ll be on sick report for at least six months. Dey wired da pieces of her kneecap tagether, and if dat don’t work, dey go back in and give ’er a knee replacement. Da kid’s only worried she’ll be surveyed outta de Job.”

  “Who is inside with her?” Agueda asked the trustee.

  “Her parents,” the chunky man answered, stealing a glance at Agueda’s breasts.

  Hagstrom glanced at the policemen standing around in little, concerned groups and asked the trustee, “Was her partner married?”

  “No,” Cutrone answered sadly. “He leaves parents, and a brudder and sister.”

  Lucy Seaver had three drains in her injured knee. The limb was contained within a continuous-passive-range-of-motion contraption that automatically kept bending and relaxing the leg. She looked heavily sedated. A gray curtain separated the beds. Her distraught parents stood up as Vinda and his team entered the room. Vinda made the introductions and said to them, “It’s important that we talk to your daughter.”

  “The nurse gave her Demerol a while ago. She keeps dozing off,” her father said.

  Hagstrom spoke words of encouragement to Officer Seaver’s silently weeping mother.

  Vinda made his way around to the side of the bed, and said softly, “Lucy, this is Lieutenant Vinda, can you hear me?”

  The injured officer blinked open her eyes.

  “Hi,” Vinda said. “Are you up to talking a bit?”

  Seaver winced. “I’m sorry I missed him, Lou. I always shoot expert at the range.”

  “You weren’t at the range, Lucy, you were in the street. And suffering excruciating pain. You were lucky to get off four rounds. You probably saved your own life.” Watching the leg bending and relaxing, he asked gently, “Are you up to telling us what happened?”

  She said she was, and haltingly told her story. “We got careless, Lou. We let him get close to us.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Agueda said.

  Vinda held up the composite sketch of the killer. “Lucy, did you ever see this face before?”

  “I’ve seen it on every television station and front page in this city. But that is not the man who killed my partner.”

  Agueda and Hagstrom exchanged glances.

  Vinda felt a chill of uneasiness grip his stomach. “You’re sure this is not the man?” Vinda said.

  “No,” the cop said firmly.

  “Is there any similarity?” Agueda asked, her tone almost pleading.

  “No.” Lucy moaned from the pain. “Mommy, get the nurse.”

  Her mother rushed outside; her father took his daughter’s hand, comforting her. Vinda knew that the mother would return soon with a nurse who would in all probability evict them from the room, so he hurriedly asked, “Lucy, think back. What did you think when you first saw this guy approaching you and your partner?”

  Two gurneys and three civilians crowded into the elevator on the way down.

  The sky was overcast as the detectives walked out of the building. “What do you think?” Agueda asked the Whip.

  “I think we’re going to have to pull back all those composites,” Vinda said. “I’m going to speak with Worthington. Lucy Seaver’s perp sounds like a close match to him. God, what an idiot I’ve been.”

  He stopped outside the door that led to the morgue. “I want you to give Moose and Marsella a Ten-one through Operator Forty-seven, and coordinate your efforts in finding Frank Griffin. And get a photo of our wonderful witness to show to Lucy.”

  “John? What are you doing here?” Dr. Patricia Marcal asked, looking up out of a cadaver’s chest cavity.

  Running his finger over the stainless-steel table, he said, “I hear you retrieved blood from the bathtub.”

  She peeled off her gloves and threw them into the wastebasket. “I don’t believe he’s drinking their blood.”

  Going over to the body on the table, he said, “The poor nun?”

  “Yes.”

  Examining the wound, he asked, “Why the vampire act, I wonder?”

  “I think we have to assume it’s a sexual thing with him. But we haven’t found semen at any of the scenes.”

  “Maybe he practices safe sex?”

  “John,” she chided him, smiling. She went over to the sink and washed her hands. Pulling towels out of the wall dispenser, she turned to face him and said, “If you are correct, and he has the murder weapon in his mouth, then, when he bites down and severs the arteries, blood would swill into his mouth, causing him to retch, perhaps vomit.”

  “That would not happen if he found some way of keeping the blood out. Like maybe snapping the head away the instant he slices into the artery.”

  “That would require precise timing on his part.”

  “Not timing, Doctor. Practice.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  A bruised purple-blue sky peeped through the overcast.

  A taxi pulled to a stop in front of the fashionable, unpretentious cooperative apartment building on the southeast corner of Fifth Avenue and Sixty-eighth Street. A well-dressed woman got out and sauntered under the canopy that stretched from shiny black doors to the curb.

  Vinda watched her from the department car he had parked on the northeast side of Fifth. A limousine with the vanity license plate MALCOLM had parked a few feet away from the awning. Webster is in residence, Vinda thought, tossing the vehicle identification plate onto the dashboard.

  He waited on the corner for the gridlock to break, and when it did, he walked past smoking tailpipes and angry horns to the other side of the street.

  Walking up on the driver’s side of the limo, he stared through the tinted glass and made out the outline of Mr. Biceps. “Ya-te-hey, scumbag,” Vinda called out, knocking on the glass.

  The window whispered down; Biceps still looked like he was popping steroids.

  “How’d you like New Jersey?”

  “You cops all think you’re comedians, don’t you?”

  “Naw. We’re just a bunch of working fools tryin’a make it home at the end of the day.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “Is your master upstairs?”

  “Waitin’ on you.” The window slid back up.

  Vinda stepped off the elevator into the penthouse’s foyer. Webster was waiting. He took Vinda’s coat and hung it in a closet. The foyer was furnished with an antique walnut chest fitted with arms and a back that served for seating, and two walnut hall chairs.

  Webster led him into the living room. The glass walls looked out over Central Park; across the park’s bare, snow-dusted trees were the buildings of Central Park West etched in the distance.

  A tall, distinguished-looking m
an rose to greet them. “You asked me to locate the best prosthodontist in the country, and here he is,” Webster said to Vinda, introducing him to Sidney Polgreen.

  Vinda and the doctor shook hands. “I’m working on a murder case …”

  “I know,” Polgreen said. “Malcolm gave me all the details.”

  Vinda took morgue photos from his breast pocket and handed them to the doctor. Webster saw what they were and said, obviously disturbed, “I have some work to do,” and abruptly left the room.

  Watching the dentist examine the photographs, Vinda said, “We assume that he needs his hands to control his victims, so we’ve concluded that the weapon must be held in his mouth. I’ve spoken to an ME and a prosthodontist and they’ve both told me that a prosthesis held in the mouth could not generate enough force to kill, because the human mouth is not made for predation.”

  “They were both wrong, Lieutenant,” Polgreen said.

  Vinda’s eyebrows drew together as a wave of relief washed over him. Polgreen handed him back the photos and picked up his briefcase. He sat down on the calfskin-covered sofa, gesturing Vinda to the empty space next to him.

  Vinda walked over and sat.

  The doctor opened his case and took out a pencil. “I’d like you to lay this across the front of your mouth and bite down, generating as much force as you can.”

  Vinda complied with his request, his neck muscles straining with the effort. Removing the pencil, he looked at the marks he’d made and said, “I couldn’t generate much force.”

  “That was because your front teeth, your incisors, are even and act as a vertical stop. Now take the pencil and lay it across your back teeth.”

  Vinda did that and produced enough force to bite deep into the wood. Removing the shaft, he examined the marks he had made, and said, “I did some number with the back teeth.”

  “That’s because there is no vertical stop.” Pointing to the back of Vinda’s jaw, he said, “The masseter muscle is large and powerful. It enables us to raise and lower our jaws; it works in a fashion similar to the torquing force of a lever.”

  “How would such a prosthesis function?”