The Seduction - Art Bourgeau

by Art Bourgeau

  She climbed into the chair. The stereo system throughout the salon was playing the Beatles' "Strawberry Fields Forever" and the music seemed caressing as she made herself comfortable, gazing at the somber black-and-white photos that decorated the walls of the cubicle.

  "What's so important that would make you get waxed twice in such a short time?" Kelly asked.

  Missy smiled. How different her reasons were this time. The waxing, not her legs, she'd always had that done, but her pubes, had begun when Peter began to prowl. Knowing police lab work as she did, she also knew that a stray pubic hair of hers found at the scene could, in the hands of an inquisitive lab technician, prove incriminating. But this time she was doing it for Felix, to be smooth, clean and ready for him.

  "It's because I'm getting married."

  Kelly looked at her with surprise, said nothing as she piled a couple of handfuls of strips of white cloth near at hand and tilted the chair back so Missy was almost horizontal. Working methodically and efficiently from the feet up, she began to spatula on the hot wax over a small area, press a strip of cloth onto it and immediately rip it off like a Band-aid, taking the embedded hair with it.

  As she worked Kelly said, "Tell me all about him. Is he gorgeous?"

  "Oh, yes, also rich."

  "Good, you'll still be able to afford to come to me and you'll still be able to bring your little gifts. What does he do?"

  "He's a real estate developer from New Orleans who's doing a project here in town. But that's all I can tell you. We want to keep it a secret until we see if I'm pregnant."

  "Are you?"

  "No, not yet, but I expect I will be after tonight."

  "So that's why you're here."

  "That's right. I didn't want him to find any five o'clock shadow."

  "How did you figure out your time? Did you take your temperature?" Kelly asked, still spreading on wax, pressing cloth into it and ripping it off as she worked her way up Missy's legs.

  "No, I used one of those kits. 'Essence,' it's called."

  "I've seen them in the drugstore. Do they really work?"

  "Oh, yes, they measure the amount of luteinizing hormone in your morning urine. That's one way to tell when you're fertile."

  "That's right, you're in the lab business. You'd know that sort of thing . . . What does your fiancé think of all this. I mean, these days men don't seem to like the idea of a woman getting pregnant—"

  "He wants me to get pregnant."

  "Does that mean if you don't he won't marry you?"

  "No, he's old-fashioned. He wants to marry me either way, but unless I'm pregnant we might as well live together. Don't you agree?"

  Kelly nodded, finishing with Missy's legs. As she bent to apply the hot wax to Missy's mons veneris, she abruptly stopped, and stared.

  "What in the world happened to you? You're all bruised down here," she said.

  Missy, of course, knew that the bruises were from the chain between her legs, securing the dildo and rubbing against her labia, and she smiled as her thoughts drifted to her final moments with Cynthia . . . how she had managed to break through Cynthia's reserve and bring her along . . . how as Cynthia's time came near, in her own voice she had said aloud, "Cynthia, darling, you should see the lovely dress l've picked for your funeral." The shock had been complete. Cynthia's eyes had opened wide at the sound of her voice and she had desperately tried to turn and look. Missy had allowed her one long look, and then had pulled the chain tight around Cynthia's neck . . .

  "They were from my lover," she said now in a soft voice, and Kelly did not notice that she had used the past tense.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE NEWSROOM was busy. Telephones were ringing, keyboards clattering. Laura took no notice of them. Her whole attention seemed focused on the bottom of her styrofoam coffee cup as if whatever dregs remained were tea leaves that could predict her future.

  Wearing jeans, she leaned back in the chair, feet on the desk. In the hand holding the cup was a freshly lit cigarette, and the ashtray nearby was already starting to fill with butts. She knew it was bad for her but right now she was too frazzled to care. Yesterday had begun on a high note, filled with a bit of promise when she'd discovered Felix on her doorstep with breakfast. All that had ended abruptly with the news of Marie's death. The run, the neighbors, the depot were all the grisly deja vu very bad dreams are made of. Only this time it was real, Marie was the victim, and as soon as Laura saw the body she was convinced that somehow she was to blame, that if she hadn't written the articles Marie would still be alive. It was as if the killer had left a personal message on the wind, a laughing, nasty whisper only she could hear, absolving himself of the guilt and putting it on her.

  Sloan had been cool and distant and accusing, apparently sharing her own feelings that she was responsible for Marie's death. The certainty that her actions had caused this awful thing hit her harder than anything since the dark days of her operation.

  The rest of the day she'd moved zombielike through her chores, staying at Henri David's Halloween ball only long enough to gather the necessary information for the article, then returning to the paper to write it. Later at home, though exhausted, sleep was out of the question. Several times she almost picked up the phone to call Felix and ask if he would talk to her for a while, but she didn't . . .

  Now her funk was interrupted by Gene, another features reporter, waving the phone receiver at her from his desk.

  "Laura, Lieutenant Sloan on line five for you."

  Sitting up a bit straighter in her chair, she reached for the phone. "George?"

  What she heard was not good news. Sloan was all business on his end, and Laura's only response was, "Yes, I know Cynthia Ducroit," before he broke the news. When she heard about Cynthia's death her expression changed to unbelieving shock. To say that she and Cynthia were close friends would have been wrong, but as she sat there trying to absorb the news, images of lunches and walks, of talks and trivial confidences bombarded her. And echoing over it all were Sloan's words about her death.

  Gene, the other features reporter, noted the change in Laura's face and came over to her desk. "What's wrong?" he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  She looked up at him. "Cynthia Ducroit has just been found, raped and murdered by the same creep who killed Terri and Marie in South Philly . . ." Her words sounded faraway, like someone else was saying them.

  "Can I help?"

  "No, they want to see me, but thanks."

  On the drive to Pine Street she tried to will herself not to cry, knowing she would be doing it as much for herself as for Terri or Marie or Cynthia. This was not the time for tears. This was the time to be counted. She owed them—especially Marie. She'd be damned if she'd dissolve in self-pity.

  Police cars and vans jammed up the street, and she had to park near Eleventh and walk back. There were uniformed officers securing the premises outside, but unlike South Philly there were no crowds of spectators.

  She gave her name to one of the officers, and waited. In a few moments Sloan came to the door. "Come on in," offering his hand as he said it. It was more the gesture of a funeral director. She stopped just inside the door, not sure that she could take seeing Cynthia's body.

  The store was buzzing with policemen. Lab men were dusting for prints. In the rear of the store behind the counter detectives were talking to a young woman with curly blonde hair.

  Although Laura could not hear what was being said, the young woman, dressed in a long white shirt belted at the waist, an oversized vest, and tights, seemed quite shaken. On the other side of the store, another team of detectives was talking to an elderly black man who also was obviously upset.

  Sloan waited for Laura to talk, and when she didn't he started.

  "You said on the phone that you knew her—"

  "Yes . . . what happened?"

  When he said, "For publication?" she winced slightly at the unspoken reference to her article on Marie. Sloan didn't belabor it and filled h
er in on the cleaning man finding the body and keeping up CPR for over an hour until the clerk arrived. Laura said, "CPR for over an hour on a dead person? My God, that must have been awful—"

  "Yeah, it was, I'm sure. He has a bad back to boot, but if there'd been a spark left in her he would have saved her."

  "Are you sure it's the same one that killed Terri and Marie?"

  "Yes. The body was in a kneeling position—well, not actually kneeling but the old fellow tells us she was bent over the table with her skirt up and her panties down, positioned for a rear entry like the other two—the hands were cuffed behind the back with the same type of handcuffs, and she was strangled with the same type of chain. Plus, like the others, the blood type of the sperm matches, there were no extra public hairs found and the victim's vagina was not brutalized. It's the same guy, all right, only now he's decided to work Center City as well as South Philly."

  "Why? Why the move to Center City?"

  When Sloan hesitated, Laura understood there was still a strain between them.

  "George," she said, "I know I was wrong when I wrote the article about Marie. It's all I've been thinking about since her body was found, and I know you hate me for it. I wish you would yell at me, call me names. Do something, anything if it will make things better between us. But we need to work together. Maybe my help isn't the most important in the world but I need to give it, and it just might be worth something down the line. Tell me to drop dead, but don't shut me out, please. I owe them."

  Sloan didn't acknowledge it, instead said, "Fill me in on the lunch you had with Cynthia Ducroit."

  "What do you want to know? It was just two people, well, three, having lunch."

  "Who was the third?"

  "Carl Laredo, an artist. We were having lunch in the Reading Terminal Market. He was there doing some shopping and saw us and joined us."

  At her mention of Carl's name Sloan did a mild double take, quickly said, "Was it a friendly lunch?"

  Laura was trying to think what there could be about the lunch that interested Sloan. Could he suspect Carl? Hardly seemed likely. If he did, wouldn't he have had him under surveillance and know about the lunch?

  "Yes, it was very friendly," she said. "I hadn't seen Cynthia for some time, and Carl is always . . . pleasant."

  "Who set up the lunch?"

  "I called her. I was doing an article on her ex-husband, Felix, and I wanted to interview her about him."

  "I don't remember seeing it. And why a piece on him?"

  "He's a real estate developer doing a big project here in town. He's not from here, so the paper thought it would be a good feature piece with a business slant."

  "Why an interview with the ex-wife before you do a piece on him? You're not People magazine."

  Laura was beginning to feel annoyed and a little intimidated.

  "I had met him before and found him very reserved. I thought if I had a chat with Cynthia she could at least give me some back-ground that would make the actual interview go easier."

  "What did she have to say about him?"

  And Laura suddenly had the distinctly uneasy feeling where Sloan's questioning was leading. "Wait a minute, you don't think Felix had anything to do with this . . . ?"

  Sloan was looking at her more closely, and Laura realized that her tone had revealed more than professional feelings for Felix. She covered it as best she could. "I mean, earlier you said it had to be the same one who killed Terri and Marie—"

  He didn't respond to that, instead said, "You were starting to tell me about what his ex said at lunch."

  "Damn little," Laura said, trying now to appease him with the minimum. "Mainly, she talked about their divorce. They split up over children. He wanted them and she didn't. She also talked about the ups and downs of being married to a wheeler-dealer, what it was like to be rich one day and broke the next."

  She didn't feel guilty skipping details because she was sure Sloan was on the wrong track. Felix couldn't have had anything to do with it. He hadn't even seen—and then suddenly she remembered his date with Cynthia for cocktails. Was that only yesterday? But so what? What possible motive could he have? And besides, he was new in town and—

  "I thought you wanted to help."

  "I do. What makes you think I don't?"

  "You're not exactly a poker-face. You look like someone just stepped on your grave."

  He was right, why was she acting defensive? Felix was innocent and like they said, an innocent man had nothing to fear. She had no reason to hold anything back. Her obligation was to help find the real killer. Still, it just made no sense to suspect Felix. "He's only been in town some three months. Girls have been disappearing a lot longer than that . .

  "True, but we still have nothing to tie in the earlier disappearances to these deaths. The fact that we found the bodies indicates a different pattern." Sloan purposely did not mention the two missing girls whose bodies had not been found but who had also been linked with Peter "So . . . ?"

  "Well, yesterday morning I had breakfast with Felix and he told me he had a date with Cynthia for cocktails early in the evening—"

  "We know about that. Did he intend to keep the date?"

  "Yes, as far as I know . . . how did you know about it?"

  "The same way we knew about your lunch—from her date-book. It was in her purse. The entry for you read, 'Lunch with Laura Ramsey at the Reading Terminal Market to discuss Felix,' and it had a question mark after it. Any idea why?"

  "I don't know. Maybe to indicate it was an interview," said Laura. "Like she wasn't sure about it."

  He nodded. "Makes some sense. The way she wrote her entries—last names included—she was very complete, almost like she was keeping a record rather than a reminder to be someplace at a certain time."

  "Oh, well, I wouldn't know about that . . . What did the entry for yesterday say?"

  "'Drinks with Felix at Lagniappe."'

  "Was there a question mark after that, too?"

  "No, just exclamation points. Going by her other entries she seemed to think this one was important. Why?"

  "I don't know. She made the date, not Felix, and he didn't seem to know much about it either."

  "How were things between them?"

  "There was a certain distance, like with any divorced couple, but on the whole they seemed on better terms than most."

  "Was there any chance of a reconciliation?" he said, watching her closely.

  It was an unpleasant question for Laura to answer. By admitting earlier that she had seen Felix socially, and by saying that she was Cynthia's friend, no matter what she said now her answer would make it seem as if the three of them were some sort of tacky love triangle. A damned—if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't situation.

  She looked at Sloan. "She wanted to think so."

  "But you don't agree—"

  "Look, I don't know Felix well enough to agree or disagree. I've seen him three times . . . once in a group at Lagniappe, once at dinner to interview him for the article, and once for breakfast . . . "

  Even as she disclaimed their relationship she knew that by mentioning breakfast she made it sound like she'd spent the night with Felix, but she didn't care. Let him think what he wanted, as long as it didn't hurt Felix or jeopardize the case.

  "At Lagniappe? That's twice it's come up. You were introduced to him there, and Cynthia was supposed to meet him there. Sounds like he hangs out there."

  "Well, he's new in town, but Justin Fortier, he's the owner of Lagniappe, is his friend so I believe he does go there quite a bit."

  "You said he'd only been here about three months . . ."

  "Since late July, I believe. At least that's when his project actually started. He may have been here a little earlier . . . George, come on, why do you keep questioning me about Felix? He couldn't have done it—"

  "At the moment it seems he was the last one to have had contact with the deceased, and he is her ex-husband, and there was bad feeling between them at one tim
e . . . Plus we ran a quick check on him this morning. He's been in prison, for manslaughter. That's not like running a traffic light. It's for killing someone. We sure as hell have to check him out and consider him at least a suspect."

  "But he was pardoned. It was an industrial accident that turned out to be his partner's fault. His partner confessed to the whole thing and Felix was pardoned."

  "But his partner got his religion in prison after an unknown assailant damn near beat him almost to death. That's when he changed his story about Ducroit's involvement."

  As he talked, Laura remembered the scars on the back of Felix's hands where his knuckles had been broken, and how Felix wouldn't talk about them. She felt sick. Sloan was building a case against Felix, but he was wrong . . . "It could have been anybody, prisons are violent places . . ."

  "Wait here a minute," Sloan said, and went across the store to the counter and returned with something he had taken from a purse on the counter.

  "George," she said, "nothing you've said is evidence, but you seem all ready to convict him. You don't have one concrete thing that ties him in to Terri's and Marie's deaths—"

  "We do. It's not much, but added on to the rest, it's one damn strong circumstantial case. Sure, with the right alibi it could come tumbling down, but we won't know about that until we question him."

  Sloan, she knew, was not the sort of man to bluff or grandstand. lf he said he had something he had it.

  "What is it?" said Laura, anxiety now clear in her voice. "I swear to God it goes no further than right here. No newspapers, nobody. Not unless you say so."

  He looked hard at her. "One word to anybody and I guarantee I'll charge you with obstruction. I'll make it stick, too; I know your editor. You follow?"

  She nodded vehemently.

  "Okay, when we found Terri's body, we also found in her purse a pack of matches from Lagniappe. We knew they sure as hell couldn't have belonged to her, not to a South Philly kid wet behind the ears. We figured they might belong to the killer; he gave them to her to light a cigarette or something, and she kept them."