by John Lutz
Victor stood up from the sofa and shook the cool, dry hand.
“You’re the patient’s brother?” he asked Victor, with a concerned expression. He had a pale complexion, red-rimmed blue eyes.
Victor said he was.
“I’m Dr. Polanski. The nurse said you’ve been asking for an update on your sister’s condition.”
“Nobody wants to tell me anything,” Victor said.
Dr. Polanski nodded, as if he’d heard the complaint many times before. “She’s still in a coma,” he said. “Her hip and leg injuries are serious but under control and pose her no danger. It’s the head injury we have to keep an eye on.”
“But she’s going to be okay?”
Dr. Polanski took a deep breath. “She should be. It’s difficult to know for sure with this kind of head injury. There’s still significant hemorrhaging, causing blood seepage between the skull and the membrane covering the brain. This is causing pressure that has to be relieved. As of now, there’s no way to know for sure whether that pressure’s done damage to the brain itself.”
“She looks calm. Is she suffering?”
“No, she’s sedated, and we’re going to keep her in an induced coma for at least another few days.”
“Induced? You mean you’ve deliberately put her in a coma?”
“It’s what we do in cases like this, Mr….?”
“Lamping. Victor Lamping.”
“Your sister has no other family?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I’ll tell the nurses to keep you informed,” Dr. Polanski said. “And to notify you when your sister is conscious and you can visit her.”
He extended his hand again, and Victor shook it.
“With a little luck,” Dr. Polanski said, “your sister’s going to be okay.”
Victor watched the doctor stride swiftly down the hall and disappear through two wide swinging doors that parted for him automatically, seeming to hurry themselves because they knew he wasn’t going to slow down. They leisurely closed behind him so that their NO ADMITTANCE message was again on display.
After checking the nurses’ station to make sure they had his cell number, Victor left the hospital and took a cab to the offices of E-Bliss.org.
Seated behind his desk, wearing flower-patterned suspenders over a white shirt today, Palmer Stone looked properly concerned as Victor filled him in on Gloria’s condition.
“So the coma’s induced,” he said thoughtfully when Victor was finished.
“I’ve told the nurses I want to be there when they bring her out of it,” Victor said. He let himself fall back into the leather sofa, making air swish from the cushions like a sympathetic sigh. “I’ve never trusted nurses.”
“Nor I,” Stone said. The air from the cushions caused a stirring that brought a whiff of Stone’s expensive cologne to Victor. Stone laced his fingers on the desktop. “How are things progressing in the Jill Clark matter?”
“Not well,” Victor said. “Her upstairs neighbor and new best friend—that bitch Jewel—is complicating things. She’s on Jill like a spandex suit. Sometimes I think she’s hot for her; other times I think she wants a ménage à trois.”
Stone calmly regarded Victor. “That hardly seems likely.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s just that the two women have become so close I can never get Jill alone. And when and if we are out of Jill’s apartment, we can’t get our client in without worrying about Jewel showing up. I think Jill gave her a key to the place.”
“Hmm. They are close friends. That could be problematic.”
“One thing’s for sure,” Victor said. “Jewel’s never gonna buy into a new Jill. No way to fool her when they’re like sisters. And we can’t delete both of them without making the cops suspicious.”
“There might come a time,” Stone said, “when we simply might have to take the risk.”
“If it weren’t such a risk,” Victor said, “it would be a pleasure.”
“We’re not in this for pleasure, Victor. We’re in it for profit.”
“Yeah. You’re right, Palmer. I was just ruminating. No harm in that.”
“None,” Stone agreed. “I do it myself.” He sat back and opened a drawer, then laid some file folders on his desk. “I hate to cut our visit short, Victor, but I’ve got to get to these.” He picked up a ballpoint pen from where it lay on the desk. “Keep me apprised of Gloria’s condition.”
“Of course I will,” Victor said, standing up from the sofa. He shook his head. “Problems always come in bunches.”
“They can be solved in bunches, too,” Stone said.
“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
Stone wasn’t sure if Victor was being sarcastic. That was what made Stone uneasy about him, the recent unevenness that seemed to have seeped into his personality. It made him unpredictable.
Stone watched him walk from the office and softly close the door behind him. Victor had missed a patch of stubble when he shaved this morning, and his expensive dress boots didn’t glisten with the usual shine. It was difficult for Stone not to be concerned. Maybe the changes in Victor could be attributed to Gloria’s condition. On the other hand, Victor had begun to worry Stone well before Gloria was struck by a cab.
Stone laid the pen back on the desk and leaned back in his chair. He ruminated.
It seemed that things were coming unraveled. Maybe it was time for him to disappear. He had an exit plan that Gloria and Victor didn’t know about. He thought of it simply as Plan B. Gloria and Victor were friends as well as business associates, and he owed them some loyalty, but a man had to take care of himself. He wasn’t quite ready to act on his plan, but he’d continue giving it some thought.
After a few minutes, he went over and picked up the morning Times from where it lay on a table near the sofa. The paper was still folded. Stone hadn’t so much as glanced at it.
When he opened the paper and saw the headline, he had to smile: TORSO MURDERER FOUND DEAD IN LOUISIANA.
This would certainly reduce the pressure. However it figured in the mix, it was a plus for the company and a minus for the police.
Stone felt relief move through him, easing a tension in his stomach he hadn’t even realized was there. For now, all thoughts of Plan B faded away.
Still smiling, he carried the paper over to his desk and sat back down to read the details.
Making sure the devil wasn’t in them.
60
“We’ve lost our decoy,” Renz said, in a voice that suggested a close relative had died.
Quinn and Renz were in Renz’s office. Renz looked terrible in the harsh morning sunlight. His bloodhound eyes were encircled by saggy flesh that was even darker than usual. Before him on his desk lay this morning’s Times. Quinn thought that was enough to explain Renz’s appearance.
“Not quite yet,” Quinn said. He’d read the paper over breakfast and given the Coulter story some thought. “As far as the media are concerned, Coulter’s still the Torso Murderer.”
“Until another torso turns up and the shit hits the fan again, and then us.”
Quinn knew that by “us” Renz meant “me.”
“Look at the bright side, Harley.”
“I am. I see a fire about to consume us.”
“You have a point about the real killer taking another victim, and establishing that Coulter wasn’t our man. But the killer’s probably thinking right along with you. He stays pretty much in the clear until he murders again. That might make him wait a while. Meanwhile, Coulter’s dead and can’t provide alibis for the times of some of the Torso Murders.”
That last seemed to cheer Renz somewhat. His bleary eyes opened wider and he looked thoughtful. “That’s true enough.”
“What about Nobbler?”
It took Renz a few seconds to understand what Quinn meant. “Yeah, it might settle him down, too. Far as we know he bought the story about Coulter being our prime suspect. Maybe he’ll pull in his horns.”
>
Quinn didn’t disagree. But he knew that when Nobbler saw that Renz wasn’t pulling in any horns, he’d realize Coulter had only been a decoy. That was if he didn’t realize it already. Nobbler was smart and had his sources within the NYPD.
“The other thing Coulter’s death does for us,” Quinn said, “is put E-Bliss off their guard. They’re thinking the pressure’s off them, as long as everyone’s assuming the Torso Murderer died when Coulter died.”
Renz bit on his flabby lower lip and nodded. “It might make them careless.”
“When you hold your press conference,” Quinn said, “emphasize that the case against Coulter is still being made, even though he’s dead. We aren’t jumping to any conclusions. We want to be absolutely sure of his guilt.”
“I like that,” Renz said. “Cover our asses for when the real killer leaves us another grisly present.”
“The idea is to nail the killer before then,” Quinn said. “We do that, and none of the stuff about Coulter will matter.”
“You got that right,” Renz said. “The public wants this prick stopped, and whoever does it will be a hero. Or heroes.” He placed his hands behind his neck, leaned back in his chair, stretched, and stared up at the ceiling while flexing his muscles so that his biceps jumped around beneath the taut material of his shirt. “Who do you suppose shotgunned Coulter? I mean, nobody’s stepped forward to take a bow and be an instant celebrity.”
“Let the Louisiana cops worry about it,” Quinn said. “We’ve got our own worries.”
Renz sat forward, picked up the Times, and tossed it to the side of his desk.
“Fill me in on some of those worries,” he said, “so I can worry some more.”
Maria Sanchez absently scratched at her arms, paced five steps this way, five steps back. This was getting unbearable. She had to get out and risk scoring some coke. It was either that or go mad.
She walked to the window and glanced outside.
It was still morning. Not even goddamned noon. It felt as though she’d been awake for ten hours after finally dropping into an uneasy sleep about dawn. New York was bright and hot out there. A city strange to her. And ominous. It wouldn’t work, trying to make a buy during daylight. She needed the night. She needed the people who came out at night.
She needed.
She would have to wait for darkness. Then she would act.
She needed.
61
The evening brought showers, lightning flashes, and thunder rolling like artillery volleys above the stone and glass towers along the avenues. Then, with a humid hot breeze off the East River, the rain stopped falling, the lightning ceased, and night dropped like a curtain in a darkened theater over the city.
The new Madeline, Maria Sanchez, stood before the cracked full-length mirror mounted on the bedroom door and gave her image a final appraisal. Teased-out blond hair, tight red sleeveless T-shirt that emphasized her breasts, form-fitting black skirt that hugged her lean hips and came to just above her knees, fishnet black stockings, and killer four-inch red high heels. Makeup definitely on the heavy side, with black false eyelashes, too much eyeliner, and bright wet-look lip gloss. Lots of paste jewelry that looked as cheap as she wanted to look. She winked at herself and ran her tongue along her lower lip. She was satisfied. She looked like a whore.
To make the kind of buy she had in mind, she had to pass for a poor dumb working girl who needed a fix and had recently turned enough tricks to afford one. She had to be trusted by people who had trust in nothing other than money or power. Dressed as obviously as she was, there was always the chance they might think she was an undercover narc; but she could sense when that might happen and do something even an undercover cop wouldn’t do to prove her dishonest intentions. When it came to survival, the new Madeline was like her preceding persona and had few inhibitions.
In Mexico, and during trips with Jorge to San Francisco, she used to feel above the kind of people she was now about to move among. She was the wife of a drug king, making her a drug queen, a superior creature with both money and power. It showed on her even when Jorge wasn’t present. She’d inspired respect and fear among the addicted and the lower echelons of dealers. Now she had to pass as one of them.
Maybe I am one of them!
Trying to ignore her stab of panic, Maria turned away from the mirror. She went to the window and gazed out at the streetlights below. They were starred in the damp air, but the rain had stopped.
It was time to go out.
Before leaving, she added one more accessory to her outfit: a small black beaded purse. It contained a comb, some Kleenex, and a mace bomb she’d bought at a flea market. Supposedly, one whiff of the stuff and whoever might want to harm her would collapse helpless in a coughing fit. She didn’t even know if the thing worked, but carrying it made her feel better.
At the door she considered taking an umbrella, then almost laughed out loud. The woman she’d been assessing in the mirror wasn’t the sort who’d carry an umbrella if it wasn’t raining. Being caught in the rain would be the least of the chances she’d routinely take. Tonight, Maria was that woman.
At first it was difficult to walk in the stiletto-heeled shoes. Maria took a cab south on Broadway until she was in a neighborhood that met her needs. The cabbie, who’d swerved to the curb immediately to pick her up, seemed to know what part of town she wanted to go to before she told him. Image could be everything in this world.
On foot again, it took her a few blocks to stop wobbling. She was almost surely working up a blister on her left big toe, but the hell with it. Blisters she could deal with later.
Now that the rain had stopped, there were plenty of people back out on the sidewalks. Maria ignored the stares she drew, and the occasional remarks. She went to clubs in the Village that looked like places where drug buys might be made. Her clothes were working their magic. Men propositioned her in ways bold and subtle, suave and crude. One place turned out to be a lesbian bar, and she was asked by a butch-looking woman wearing what looked like a leisure jacket to dance to an old sixties rock tune. Had to say no twice. She noticed everyone was dressed as if it were the sixties and realized that maybe she was, too. Women in her ostensive profession were in many ways a constant.
A sign made of pink paper letters strung together and draped on the mirror behind the bar declared that it was NOSTALGIA NIGHT and exhorted everyone to HAVE FUN! Maria had never regarded nostalgia as fun, merely weakness.
She thought about dancing for a while to work off the tension that was building in her, but she was worried she might sprain an ankle in her four-inch heels. A bald woman wearing a baggy tie-dyed T-shirt and huge gold hoop earrings grinned and waved a handful of bills at her, beckoning her to come back. She mouthed, “Don’t leave,” but Maria pushed through half a dozen women just entering and went back out into the warm night.
The fourth place she tried was Billie G’s, in a crumbling brick building just off Christopher Street. It occupied the entire first floor, a vast space with a bar so long four bartenders were working it. There was a good-sized parquet dance floor, a neat rectangle running parallel to the bar. On the other side of the crowded dance floor were tables. The clientele seemed to be of both genders and every sexual orientation. The dancers moved jerkily to a rhythmic, relentless pounding sound that Maria suspected was an amplified heartbeat.
She took a table along a wall and ordered an economical well drink, bourbon and water on the rocks. The waitress, an emaciated woman with one eye made up to look blackened, didn’t give her a second look. My kind of place, Maria thought.
Putting on a pointedly disinterested act whenever someone approached her table, she studied the crowd. If she was a prostitute, she was a particular one. Knowing what to look for, Maria sipped her drink and kept to herself.
Near the end of the bar up near the door were some black-boots-and-leather types. Tough-looking guys who might be bikers, or might be daytime worker drones from the financial district, out of the
ir Brooks Brothers garb and playing a role.
Farther down the bar were more traditional types, wearing everything from jeans to suits and ties, drinking everything from beer and straight booze to Cosmopolitans.
As people entered Billy G’s, some of them paused near the leather guys, then walked on. It was quick, it was deft, but Maria’s practiced eye saw money and small items change possession. A geek in low-rider pants, and with his lacquered hair combed into five-inch spikes, was definitely not running with the leather crowd, yet he, too, paused at the end of the bar and made an almost unnoticeable exchange.
Maria sat and watched, becoming optimistic, thinking maybe she wouldn’t have to finish her piss-and-water drink.
Within about ten minutes one of the leather guys, a big one with a graying beard, slid off his bar stool and made his way along the edge of the dance floor toward the restrooms. He was shirtless beneath a black leather vest with chains dangling from it. His muscular arms were adorned with tattoos, and when one of the dancers accidentally bumped into him, he gave the man a casual but vicious swipe with his elbow. The injured dancer, bent over in pain but still moving to the beat, glared at him, but didn’t try to retaliate.
Maria had watched people going and coming from the restrooms, keeping track. It was possible that the bearded leather guy would be alone in the men’s room.
This is why you came here. Do it!
She stood up from her table and moved among the dancers to catch up with him.
The restrooms were at the end of a long hall and down a flight of dimly lit, steep concrete steps. The stiletto heels were a problem here, too. Maria had to be careful as she descended the steps. The stairwell was narrow, and the closer she got to the bottom, the more the stench of stale urine and pine disinfectant confirmed what was at the base of the steps. Urine was definitely winning the battle with the disinfectant.