by Art Bourgeau
"Wait, I thought it happened back there," she said, pointing toward the cul-de-sac.
"It did, but I'm giving you the tour to give you the feel of the place. Atmosphere for your piece." He obviously wasn't enjoying this, even resented what he was doing, although he'd always liked her personally. They paused at the door long enough for him to say, "Whatever you do, don 't touch anything. The finger-print man can't do the place till they remove the body—"
And then she wasn't hearing anything. The smell overwhelmed her other senses. She would never be able to forget it, never be able to describe it, either. The death smell of a young girl . , . it seemed to coat her from head to toe like a second skin. Sloan took out his bottle of cologne, used his handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth while he sniffed it. Laura, watching, quickly did the same. The rooms of the old depot they passed through were still filled with furniture: old-fashioned oversize desks, wooden swivel chairs, filing cabinets and a freight scale. Papers were still strewn on the desktops, and the wire in/out baskets were still full. Only the thick layer of dust, grime and cobwebs showed they were not in some sort of time warp where everyone was out to lunch.
The door and window to the freight room were both still open for maximum ventilation, but by the time they got to it the smell was overpowering, even with the cologne. The people from the medical examiner's office were coming through the open freight door now with their stretcher and body bag, but Sloan motioned for them to wait outside.
Laura looked about the room, taking in everything but the central figure of the tableau. Unlike the rest of the building, this room had been dusted and swept clean and was as Sloan had described it: candles, giving it the feel of the setting for some sort of secret rite, a ceremony; a bottle of wine; a transistor radio—that last somehow did not fit in.
Finally——how long could she avoid it?—Laura forced herself to look at the victim. The body was in deep shadows, but Laura could see she was in a kneeling position, her head resting on some blankets. She was not nude but her pants were down, her blouse pushed up and her hands fastened somehow behind her. As she edged forward, she felt Sloan's hand on her arm, ignored it and took another step. A gleam of light from the open window cut across the body, and she saw the girl's hands were secured behind her back with handcuffs.
Another step gave her a clear view of the body, and it was all she could do not to scream. The swollen body had burst open and-
Enough.
Sloan grabbed her and quickly led her out the freight door.
"Now you know why I didn't want you to see it."
"George," she said, almost afraid to breathe normally, "you've got to get him. He can't get away with it. My God . . ." Whoever had done this was a sickness, a virulence that had to be stamped out before it could spread.
Sloan took her arm and led her away from the depot. "I promise, we'll get him. Now go on back to the paper and I'l1 call you as soon as the identification is complete."
As she walked toward the crowd she was certain of one thing . . . no boyfriend could have done this, no matter how kinky he was. And no ordinary rapist, if there was such a thing.
No, this was special. Beyond the pale. Sick, yes. But evil too. And the word rang in her ears, melodramatic in most situations, the only right one for this . . .
CHAPTER 4
ON THE way across town to the paper Laura mentally composed her story, and when she came off the elevator at her floor she was ready to write it. She went straight to her desk, flung down her purse and began: "She Died Without Pain," was her lead.
The story came easily. In fact, in a rush, as if it had to get out. No struggling for words as when trying to justify the existence of yet another skinny, tattoo-encrusted rock-and-roll zillionaire or phony titled hustler from Dubuque who had hooked a titled European hustler living on the proceeds of tourist payments for the privilege of viewing his fallen estate. This time the words were genuine, and when she was finished she knew it was the best piece she had ever written. She just hoped the editor, Will Stuart, agreed.
She checked her messages and went to the cafeteria for a cuppa. When she returned to her desk she called Will and asked to see him, took the elevator to his office and waited while Martha—Will's tall, thin, sixtyish secretary—lit an unfiltered Camel, patted her tight curls and went in to announce her. When she came back she touched the ruffled collar of her white blouse and said, "He's on the phone, but go in."
As they passed each other Laura could smell the familiar lavender sachet that caused Will to refer to her with affection as the "moll for the Lavender Hill mob."
"What's his mood like today?" she asked.
In a cigarette-roughened voice Martha said, "I wouldn't pay too much attention to him today. l think his hemorrhoids are acting up."
Will was still on the phone, so Laura took a moment to look around. She always liked his office. It was decorated like a men's club with lots of well-worn leather chairs and sofas scattered about. The wood furnishings, the coffee tables, the end tables and his massive desk all gleamed from the daily coat of paste wax given them by the custodial staff. The room was paneled in a dark wood, but there the resemblance to a club ended; where in a men's club the walls would be decorated with animal heads from bygone safaris, Will's walls were adorned with trophies of another kind—photos of male ballet dancers—and one he made no attempt to hide.
When he saw Laura he quickly said, "I'll get back to you later, dear," and hung up and greeted her. Will was a dapper, portly man in his mid-forties with a moon-shaped face, brown hair and a small mustache. Sleek was the word Laura always associated with him. Besides young men in ballet troupes, he listed among his other weaknesses a love of custom shirts, wide ties, suspenders and a lime cologne imported from the Caribbean, all of which were in evidence today.
"Sit, sit, darling," he said, waving Laura to a wing chair in front of his desk. "How are you? You feeling all right?" Asked in a conspiratorial tone.
"Fine, Will, just fine." She appreciated his concern, but also wished she had never had to let him know about the operation. At least he didn't know about the nightmares . . .
"Good, so what can I do for you?"
She told him about her morning. ". . . And I'd like to get off features for a couple of weeks to follow up on it. Less time, of course, if the killer is caught quickly."
"Laura, I won't mince words with you—no pun intended. The answer is no."
Before she could protest he began the underline: "I pay you a fair stipend to hobnob with the swells, and what do you try to sell me—mean streets, that's what you're trying to sell me, but I'm not buying. Lord, I already know about mean streets. Everybody knows about mean streets. No news down there. Whatever has possessed you?"
"It happened in my neighborhood, Will. I heard the sirens and got curious—"
Now out of his chair, he began pacing. "Laura, if I want stories about a little neighborhood tease whose boyfriend killed her because she wouldn't put out, I've got two ex-cops with brewer's droop I can send forth. But ask me if I can send them over to the Palace Hotel to interview Prince Ranier or Mick Jagger, just ask me."
Laura took a deep breath. "All right, I'm asking you, Will."
And now a touch of anger had edged into her voice. "And you're not being fair. This was no neighborhood tease. This was a kid who kept old people company after school. I've tried to get you on this before . . . teenage girls are disappearing in South Philly. As soon as the identification is complete you're going to see she was the latest. Will, for Christ sake, she was raped and murdered. And I'm betting they're going to find the same thing happened to the others. This is big. George Sloan and Seven Squad are on it. There's a serial killer loose in South Philly . . ."
He sat back and seemed to be reconsidering. "You say George Sloan's on the case . . . ? Well, doesn't signify." Pointing to a framed photograph of Glen Caruthers, the billionaire who owned the Globe, he said, "Laura, you know our policy here. We leave the national an
d international stuff to the Inquirer, the local to the Daily News, and we stick to human interest. The kind that titillates, not upsets. And, I might add, we've done very damn well following that policy."
"But this is human interest—"
"Yes, but not the right kind. If they were rich kids from Bryn Mawr, fine. But not teenagers from your neighborhood. Besides, I read that story on the weekend and I'm not sold that the disappearances are related."
"But we did get scooped. Don't we care about that? Remember, I was the first one to pitch the story to you . . . By the way, what's so wrong with my neighborhood?"
"What's wrong is you're in it. You insist on living down at the docks like you were into rough trade. You could have a place in Society Hill, or a condo on Rittenhouse Square, or a carriage house on the Main Line. But you insist on living down there. Beats me why."
He flopped in his chair and swiveled until his back was to her.
"Laura, sometimes you make me feel just like your mother. After I go to all the trouble of getting you all dolled up, you go out and roll in the dirt."
She shook her head. He knew exactly how to get to her. What he was reminding her about was that his was the lone voice speaking up for her when Caruthers' legal eagles wanted her fired as a "potential corporate liability" on account of her operation. Indeed, when the agreement was over, not only did she still have her job but she had her leave of absence, too. And during those awful months after the operation Will was her best friend, no question. At her blackest moment he appeared on her doorstep bearing a white Afghan he had crocheted for her bed, then came back more than a few times with tea and sympathy. He always had the filthiest joke imaginable for her, or a shoulder to cry on. She owed him, no question. All he had to do was ask—any time, any place. Except now. These "missing" girls, plus the murdered Terri, took precedence, at least temporarily.
"Will, you're not fooling me with all this smoke about what we do and what they do."
There was a moment's hesitation, and then with his back still to her, "You're a smart lady, I always say that. What I want you to do is a little digging and then give me a piece on a man named Felix Ducroit. I need it ASAP, by Halloween at the latest. That's the last day of October, if memory serves."
"Felix Ducroit?"
"A real estate developer—"
"I know who he is, but why?"
"I've gotten some calls from people who are very interested in Mr. Ducroit."
"What about the girls?"
"Laura, sorry, but right now this is more important to me."
"Will, I've met Felix Ducroit. I can't imagine he's more important than the lives, and deaths, of these girls. But I'll make a deal with you. Let me follow up on the girls and I'll do the other for you, too."
Will swiveled around to face her.
"What gets priority?"
She knew what the answer had to be or there would be no deal.
"Felix Ducroit."
"And remember one thing when you write it. I want no mention of a serial killer. I want this treated like an isolated incident. People start to panic at the mention of serial killers, and neither I nor our revered owner wants to be responsible for that."
* * *
Sloan, feeling just a bit like Hill Street Blues, called the meeting of Seven Squad to order. The room was thick with stale smoke, and the detectives slumped behind metal desks looked as tired as they felt from their morning at the old depot.
"All right," said Sloan, head so stuffy that his voice sounded in his ears as if from a tunnel. "Let's go over what we've got."
He glanced at the file on the desk in front of him. "The lab work's not in yet. Evans, where is it?"
Evans, a stocky man whose tie fell short of his belt by a good six inches, said, "Like you told me, I took it to Wakefield and Pollack. It won't be ready for a couple more hours."
On account of a heavy weekend of crime the police lab was jammed, and he'd okayed that Terri's specimens be sent to a private group, Wakefield and Pollack. They were the best. No problem there.
"Each of you has copies of the rest of the stuff. The remains have been ID'd. The deceased is Terri DiFranco, one of the missing girls. I'm betting we've got a serial killer here and that this Peter is our man. In addition to the deceased, we know from missing persons Peter's name was linked with at least two other of the missing girls. From what they could turn up, he courts them a while, then one bad night they just disappear."
An officer raised her hand.
"Kane, what is it?"
"We haven't found a trace of any of the other girls. Why do you think he broke the pattern with this one?"
"I don't know. Maybe for once he did something spontaneous instead of premeditated."
A boyish detective with curly hair and glasses asked, "What about the other bodies?"
"Right now, Spivak, I don't know, but it doesn't surprise me we haven't found them. There are lots of places . . . hell, ten blocks of Fifth Street is deserted, so is a lot of Seventh. They could be stacked, buried, bricked up, in any of those old houses. We've searched some of them but we've got to do more. There's also both rivers. There's North Philly. You could lose a damn army there. And of course, let's don't forget Jersey and the pine barrens. So I don't know. I'm not too worried about that right now, though. We've got a body, people. Finally. We've got a murder-one charge. Now we need to find Peter and pin it where it belongs. I'm sure you follow." He looked down at the file again. "We have a description here but it's all third hand. Nobody seems actually to have ever seen Peter. Just hearsay stuff . . . dark hair, beard, tinted glasses, leather jacket. Could be half the buddy boys in town. It also might be a disguise, of course. Guy could be bald as yours truly. Evans, check out the costumers on Walnut, get names of people buying wigs and beards. Two other things, though. He drives a silver-gray sports car. No make or model-yet. And he tells the girls he's an undercover cop."
"Don't they all," said Rafferty, digging at his nails.
"He's been perfect up till now, but it appears he may have made a little mistake." Sloan held up a black matchbook with the word "Lagniappe" in gold on the cover. "We found this in the purse of the deceased. It's from Lagniappe, the restaurant in Society Hill. Fancy place. Rock stars, sports figures, politicians, artists, you know what I mean. Not exactly the kind of place you'd find a teenager from South Philly in. She had a pack of Marlboros in her purse. Two cigarettes missing, and no other matches. According to her parents she did smoke but they wouldn't let her do it at home. So a possible scenario—she kept the matches when our man gave them to her to light a cigarette. Maybe she lit one for each of them."
"That seems thin to me. She could have gotten them any number of places," said Spivak.
"You're right on, Spivak. It's the old thing about the bottle being half-empty or half-full. I'm choosing to think of it as half-full. This is the first lead of any substance we've had on this guy. We're going to follow it up all the way t0 the end. I want you and Kane"—he nodded at the female detective—"to hang around Lagniappe. Get known as customers. See what you can come up with."
"On expense account?" said Kane.
Sloan ignored it.
"What about me and Rafferty?" said Evans. "That's a gravy assignment. You'd think a couple of vets could get in out of the rain once in a while."
Sloan allowed a smile. "With the faces on you two, they wouldn't let you in the door. Besides, Evans, your wife would skin me if I sent you into a dangerous situation like that."
"Dangerous?"
"To you, genius," growled Rafferty. "He's right. Agnes would kill you if she found out you were hanging around a slop chute like that without her. Case or no case."
Sloan let the banter run its course, then brought them back to business. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you," he said to Spivak and Kane, "don't tip you hand. The last thing we want is to get our man in motion before we're ready."
"Anything more about the place we ought to know?" asked Spivak.
&nbs
p; "I asked around before the meeting," Sloane said. "It's not exactly my turf. No drugs or hookers. A reputable establishment for the rich, the famous, and the upward-mobiles. There is one thing, though. Couple of years ago one of the waitresses accused the owner of trying to rape her. The complaint didn't get anywhere because it turned out the owner"—he paused and looked at the file—"Justin Fortier's his name, had just fired her for stealing. Probably means nothing, but check it out. It's at least a place to start."
CHAPTER 5
MISSY GLANCED down at her gold-and-diamond Piaget wristwatch with some annoyance as Felix Ducroit stopped the car across from the Rothstein Medical Tower at Seventeenth and Pine. Quarter past ten. She'd be late for work, and her first morning back. Never mind, Felix was more important . . . The man really was something the doctor ordered, especially after the humiliation Carl had handed her at Lagniappe with that sickening-sweet society reporter who was going to fix up his wonderful career for him. Jesus, and after all she'd done for him . . . Well, bye-bye, Carl; hello-hello, Felix. She rested her hand on his thigh, looked up at him, waiting for a reaction. She felt edgy, strongly drawn to this man and also resentful of him. He was nice, no question, had listened to her the way Carl had never bothered to do, or been able to do, when they sat around her place after leaving Lagniappe. She found herself talking about her father to him, letting her feelings out more than she had with anybody, ever, and she'd just met him, for God's sake. Maybe that was what made it easier, that he was a stranger. But he also seemed to bring down her guard, and at the same time she welcomed that, it also made her feel uneasy, wondering if she could trust him. The ways she'd so often felt with her father—though that last thought never surfaced, only had its effect on her emotions, mixing them.
She was impressed that he hadn't tried to bed her, but curious . . . more than curious . . . annoyed that he didn't. Not even a move or gesture. And it was the same thing now, sitting here in the car . . . She moved her hand up his thigh, just grazing his cock, felt it respond. Well, he's at least all there in that department, she thought. He was also, no question, wonderfully handsome, all bearded and stern-looking. She felt much better. In control again.