The Seduction - Art Bourgeau

by Art Bourgeau

"I just got tired of it," he said with a shrug.

  Lobster Bob came over, and Carl gave him an order for oysters on the half-shell and smoked trout.

  "No, really, why'd you do it? There's always more to it than that when a man shaves off his beard," pressed Cynthia.

  "Actually, I did it for my show in New York. A new image, you know. Beards aren't in anymore, at least not in the art world. They've become a cliché." He looked toward Laura. "Those pieces you've been writing about that South Philly girl were marvelous, really insightful and quite moving."

  "I must agree," said Cynthia. "If you make it a series I wouldn't be surprised to see you win some sort of award, maybe even the Pulitzer. When I read about that girl I cried."

  "Me, too," said Carl, "but what got me was that eyewitness account. Where did you come up with that?"

  "Please, guys, flattery will get you everywhere, but if I want to keep my job I have to finish this piece on Felix. Now, Cynthia, you were saying about Felix. What was it like when you weren't up financially?"

  "Felix could be two different people. When he was broke he never gave up, but he would get withdrawn, silent, moody."

  "That's not so unusual," Carl put in. "A lot of people get like that when they feel pressure. What was it that broke you up? I've never heard you say."

  Laura was beginning to feel like a supernumerary.

  Cynthia hesitated, then said, "I guess you could say it was mostly on account of his wanting children and my resisting. I feel differently now . . ."

  "The old biological clock?" Laura asked.

  "I suppose . . ."

  Carl, looking bored, said, "Enough of this biological clock stuff . . . Laura, what I want to hear about is that eyewitness of yours. You don't even say whether it's a he or a she."

  As she looked at Carl, Laura thought how unhelpful even specific descriptions could be. From what Marie had said, Carl seemed to fit the description of Terri's killer, minus a beard, but then no doubt so did plenty of other men in the city.

  "How about a three-way deal," said Cynthia. "If Laura tells you about the eyewitness, you have to tell us what it was like to date Missy Wakefield."

  "Why?"

  "Well, I saw her with Felix last night at the opera. They left before the first act was over, very noticeably and very rude . . . I was just wondering what she was like—"

  "You mean what Felix sees in her?" Clearly Cynthia was not over her ex.

  "If you want to put it that way."

  "Fine with me. Laura?"

  "Yes, Laura, if you don't go along I won't help anymore about Felix," said Cynthia.

  Strange, Laura thought, how her two assignments kept being linked. Still, she'd play along, see where it took her.

  "What do you want to know?"

  "About the eyewitness," Carl said. "The stuff you people leave out is what's tantalizing. I understand that until the killer is caught you have to be careful, but let me try a couple of questions. Was jealousy involved? I mean, was the eyewitness jealous of either Terri or the boyfriend?"

  "A good question," Laura said, thinking maybe Carl should be the reporter. He was good at asking good questions. "I suppose you could say jealousy played some part with the witness, but if you're asking whether that could be the motive for the killing, that the eyewitness got jealous of one or the other, then killed Terri and now is trying to frame the missing boyfriend, I'd say that's impossible. And that's also all I can tell you, in addition to what's in the article."

  "That's fine, you just answered all my questions with one word," Carl said.

  "What word was that?"

  "I'm a painter. When I use colors I use them precisely. I don't use blue. I use sky blue, or medium blue, or navy blue, never just blue. I know you, Laura. We're friends, and I know you try to use words the way I use colors. The way you said that it was impossible for the eyewitness to be the killer can mean only one thing—the eyewitness was a female. But what was she doing hanging around outside? Don't tell me . . . she was a friend of the boyfriend or a friend of Terri's. It's not likely she was a friend of the boy; he'd hardly tell her about taking someone out to kill. So she's probably a friend of Terri's. Most likely her best friend. Who else would she tell?"

  Laura was upset, she'd said too much and now needed to recover. "What if it was another boyfriend of Terri's?" she said.

  "Not likely. You said in your article that the witness didn't actually see the killing. If it was a boy, and he thought there was sex going on inside, don't tell me that he wouldn't be peeping in the window and so would have seen the whole thing."

  "That's just speculation," Laura said, again realizing she'd let out more than she should have, especially for Marie's sake . . .

  "Okay, you've shown off, Mr. Detective, now let's hear about Missy," said Cynthia.

  "Well," he said, "she's one interesting woman . . ."

  "That earns you nothing. Come on, Carl."

  "It's hard to put into words. She's beautiful and rich, and a loner. She knows everyone but has no friends. Not one, except maybe me—"

  "Look, we all know she's not a nice person, but what we want—"

  "What you want to know," he said half smiling, "is what she is like in bed."

  Laura, who had been only half-listening, still worrying if she'd endangered Marie, was pulled back by that question and was surprised to hear herself saying, "Yes, Carl . . . let's hear it in one word."

  "Touché," he said, hesitated a moment and came up with: "Creative." He looked at them. "And that's all you'll get from me. After all, a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell." When they started to protest he held up his hands. "No, enough . . . it's your turn, Cynthia. You're on about Felix."

  Turning to Laura, Cynthia said, "Are you going to see him personally for this piece?"

  "Tonight, we're having dinner."

  "Whose idea was that?" she said, an edge in her voice.

  "His."

  He didn't mention it when she saw him at the opera, she thought.

  "Well, what else do you want to know?"

  "Tell me about his prison conviction." Laura said.

  "How did you find out about that?"

  "Someone in New Orleans told me."

  "There's not much I can tell you," she said. "It happened after we were divorced. All I know is he took in a partner for a development deal. Normally Felix makes all the decisions on a project himself, but this time they split the duties between them. Something went wrong on the project and a couple of workmen were killed. Felix and his partner were charged with manslaughter or criminal negligence or something like that—and they went to prison," she said, and hastily added, "but he was pardoned later."

  That corresponded to the information Laura had gotten from the New Orleans reporter: the charge had been manslaughter, they had both been sentenced to prison, and Felix had later been pardoned.

  "Anything else?"

  "I understand in prison his partner decided to change his story and took all the blame, and the governor himself pardoned Felix."

  "So you're convinced he was innocent?" said Carl.

  "Of course. Felix isn't the kind of man to do something like that. He's too much of a man to go around cutting corners and doing shoddy workmanship. That's just not him."

  After the lunch Laura considered going back to the office but since her calendar was clear for the afternoon and she was bushed she decided against it. A nap would be good, plus she needed a little extra time to get ready for the evening with Felix. She turned onto Race Street and drove through Chinatown down to Delaware Avenue, then headed for home.

  All the talk about Felix during lunch had, face it, more than intrigued her. From the moment they had met at Lagniappe she had found him extremely attractive. There was something just a bit dangerous, distinctly exciting about those finely etched features and dark beard. More than once since then she had found herself thinking about what it would be like to be kissed by him, to feel his beard and his lips against her . . . Obviously fro
m the lunch exchanges she wasn't the only one with such thoughts. His ex, Cynthia, and Missy Wakefield were, it seemed, only a face slap short of pistols at dawn over him. However, for tonight, even though it was strictly for business, Laura had the inside track and she had to admit it made her feel good. Dinner and drinks seemed like a real date. It had been a long time since she'd been out with a man who wasn't just a friend, and she was

  looking forward to it . . .

  She was in a good mood as she easily found a parking place on Front Street and walked the short distance down Emily to her house. Inside, she proceeded to the refrigerator, where she chose a beer instead of a white wine or seltzer. A small indulgence, but at least a beginning . . . Upstairs, she started the water for her bath, then went down the hall to her bedroom, where she took her time undressing, hanging up or consigning to her laundry bag as she went.

  When she was down to bra and panties she went to her bureau to lay our fresh ones. She chose a matching set in light blue, all lace and shine, and laid them on the bed. Then on impulse she took out a matching garter belt and hooked it behind her. Even without stockings, just the feel of it around her waist and the straps hanging down made her feel more feminine—no, sexy.

  She crossed the room and closed the door. On the back of the door was a long mirror, and she stood there, studying her reflection. For a moment she thought about Felix seeing her like this. She crossed her arms in front of her and began to run her fingers up and down her arms, causing goose pimples wherever she touched. Her fingers strayed to the lightly freckled flesh below her collarbone. As she watched herself in the mirror, her hands moved down, pausing momentarily to touch her breasts. She arched her back, running her hands over her ribs and flat stomach and back up again, but stopping short of her breasts. A slight shudder passed through her body, and then her expression abruptly changed as she forced herself to reach behind and unclasp her bra. Crossing her arms again in front of her, she slid first one strap down and then the other, still holding the bra in place as she watched herself in the mirror, as though some magic transformation had taken place since the last time. But of course it hadn't.

  Slowly she lowered the bra. On her right side was a breast with a full pink nipple, with no more sag or stretch marks than on the breast of any other normal woman in her thirties. On the other side there was no breast. Just a series of crisscrossing scars she had wryly dubbed "Forty Miles of Bad Road," from the Duane Eddy song of her younger days.

  A simple mastectomy was what her doctor had called it. The cause, a small lump, painless to the touch, whose only outward sign was a slight dimpling of the skin over it. But under the skin it was a malignancy.

  Her mother had said it happened because she had angered God, that she had turned her back on her destiny as a woman to chase after a career and He had punished her for it. Her mother was Texas Gothic, but she had to admit there were a lot of womanly things she wished she'd done with her body before that day when it betrayed her . . . things she had put aside for her career and, like discarded toys, had never come back to again.

  She turned away from the mirror. There had been a moment after the operation when she had bravely tried to have sex with Phil, a pipe-smoking professor who was her occasional lover. He tried bravely, too, but in the end the sight of her made him impotent, and the look on his face told her more than she needed to know. When she still tried to talk about it he said the thought of her operation made him feel old and too mortal. She hated him for that, for his weepy pseudo-sensitivity, but worse, she hated him for being the one to tell her that now she was no-man's land . . .

  She started for the bathroom, the blue garter belt now lying on the floor like another of those discarded toys.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE MEMBERS of Seven Squad were beginning to look the worse for wear. One set of bags under the eyes now appeared to be two. Sloan was no exception. Even though he seemed to be over his flu, exhaustion had set in.

  Not so with Detective Mary Kane. The late hours she'd been keeping with Detective Spivak didn't seem to be bothering her.

  "Kane, is there some sort of magic vitamin you've been taking?" Sloan said.

  "l'm sorry, lieutenant?"

  "Look around you. Everybody in this room looks like they're running on fumes. And then there's you. What gives?"

  "I cannot tell a lie, sir. It doesn't take too much out of a girl to spend evenings having dinner in a swanky restaurant with a handsome man."

  To jeers and catcalls her partner Spivak said, "Eat your heart out, peasants."

  A good bunch, the veterans of Seven Squad, thought Sloan. Evans, Rafferty, Spivak, Kane. None except himself were handpicked, but what a luck of the draw to get them. They worked together as a tight, happy unit.

  "All right, comedians, let's get to it. What did you turn up about Peter from the families and friends of the other missing girls?"

  Silence, then Rafferty took the floor. "Not a goddamn thing, lieutenant. Not a word, not a whisper."

  "Suggestions," said Sloan.

  "Maybe it's not the same guy. Maybe he was only connected with Terri DiFranco and the other two missing girls and there's some other explanation for the rest of the disappearances," said Spivak.

  "Don't you believe it," growled Rafferty. "It's the same guy."

  Sloan had to agree with Rafferty. Although the solution Spivak posed was theoretically plausible, he didn't believe it, didn't feel it. Experience told him the unknown Peter was responsible for all of them. He'd been to the well too often to doubt it seriously.

  "If it was him in each case, why'd he change his method?" asked Spivak.

  Kane spoke up. "Maybe it's a progression. For some reason the increased risk of getting to know the girl first, getting her to care about him, and all the time knowing he was going to kill her, gives him a bigger thrill. I mean, that's what I think we're talking about here . . . a rocks-off thrill killer. A little more individual style than most, but that's what he is."

  "What about the early girls?" said Sloan.

  "He was nervous then," said Kane. "In a hurry. He'd just pick them up, get them in the car, and wham-bam. But as he went along he began to need more. The quickie wasn't enough for him anymore. He needed more danger, more involvement, more build-up."

  "You turning into a shrink, partner?"

  "Quiet, let her talk," said Sloan.

  "Well, of course I'm speculating, but what I think is that he feels nothing, and what passes for emotion with him is some sort of warmth he gets from having these young girls fall for him. Kind of like a snake. Cold-blooded, you know. Picks up on the heat of his surroundings instead of generating it himself."

  "Well," said Spivak, "if he gets off having these girls fall for him, why kill them? Why not keep them around? Enjoy them?"

  "Kane?" said Sloan.

  "Maybe he's impotent. When push comes to shove, you gentlemen should forgive the expression, he isn't there. He's humiliated, figures they're laughing at him, and then he goes into a rage and kills. We all know this is a common sort of pattern with rapists."

  "Any other comments," said Sloan.

  "The cold-blooded part sounds right," said Evans.

  "We'll reserve judgment," said Sloan. "What do you have to report on your evening at Lagniappe?"

  "Zero," said Kane.

  "Nothing?"

  "Nothing. We've kept our eye on Justin Fortier, the owner, and chatted with other customers. Fortier still seems clean, nothing against him except the waitress' vindictive accusations. Everyone else, even his wife, seems to think the world of him."

  "Okay," Sloan said wearily, give it another miss for a few days at Lagniappe. Maybe somebody is on to you and staying under wraps. Meanwhile, hit the streets. Theory's grand, but so far Peter is having his way with us. Not to mention these girls. Let's get the bastard."

  CHAPTER 14

  MARIE ONLY made it as far as the park on Fourth between Morris and Tasker before she had second thoughts about going to Costello'
s to see the gang.

  The coolness of the night had driven the younger kids out of the park, and she had it to herself. Climbing on top of the large stone turtle, she sat there for a long while, smoking one cigarette

  after another.

  With Terri's death constantly on her mind, the world had changed for her. Excitement and pleasure were gone, replaced by a sleepy sort of sadness that kept her moving zombielike through the days. Days had passed since she had talked with that Laura from the newspaper, and everything she had been promised was true. Her name wasn't in the paper, but people found out and no one hated her for coming forward with her story about Terri's death. In fact, people had treated her like she

  was a hero.

  The police had questioned her, had shown her mug shots of criminals and pictures of cars in hopes that she could identify one or the other. The car was easy, but Peter . . . when she couldn't find him in the pictures they brought in an artist. But no matter how many times they worked on it he could not capture Peter on paper. Still, in spite of her failure to identify him, the police had always gone out of their way to make her feel appreciated and safe.

  At home, her parents had been kinder than she had ever thought possible. Her mother had bought her a new Phil Collins album from the K-Mart, and her father had gone so far as to take the whole family out to dinner at the Triangle Tavern during the week and had even stayed sober enough on Saturday night to go to Mass with them on Sunday.

  Likewise, during the week she had enjoyed a special, unaccustomed popularity with the kids at school. Before, she had been the dumpy kid with the glasses who was friends with Terri. No more. But it couldn't make up for losing Terri. Her best friend. And when you came down to it, she had deserted Terri when it counted most. Even though no one had said it, she knew Terri must have screamed, must have struggled, and if she hadn't left because of a little rain she could have saved her best friend's life. She thought of going to confession but gave it up because she had never liked the old priest who was sure to be on the other side of the booth. The dandruff that was always on his shoulders put her off, and she knew that a penance of Hail Marys, even if it was in the hundreds, could never bring absolution for the way she'd deserted Terri. She had tried praying, too, but it hadn't helped. Maybe if she could confess to one of the sisters it would be different. They could be so strong; they would know which punishment was right. But she couldn't do it so it was all just blowing smoke, as her father would say.