The Seduction - Art Bourgeau

by Art Bourgeau

  For all her scored points, Laura felt, she hadn't gotten what she came for. Still, she felt she had rattled Missy some. But it wasn't enough, damn it . . . She noticed her tape recorder on the coffee table and decided to leave it behind. It would give her an excuse to come back and try again . . .

  She got up and crossed the living room. At the door she stopped and took out one of her cards. On the back she wrote her number and handed it to Missy. "This is my home number. If you see the light and change your mind and want to talk, call me. I'm not going to print anything we've said." Then added, "In fact we're not going to print a word about any of this—your rape, Felix's arrest, nothing. And neither are any of the other papers in town. I'll see to that. After all, you're a rape victim and we all have to protect your rights. Of course, what that will do is leave you out in the open, since the man who really did it to you won't know what's happened. Which means he'll have no choice except to come for you."

  She paused, and coldly added, "In the long run, when that happens, at least the police will know Felix is innocent. The only bad thing about it is with you gone we'll lose the only lead that can bring the real killer to justice and maybe he'll never be found. Your epitaph can read: She proved you can take it with you. Should look good on a tombstone. Lots of style."

  As Laura went out and quietly closed the door behind her, Missy wadded up the card and threw it on the rug. "You simple, stupid bitch. You think you're so smart. You haven't even got the imagination of a sadass bag woman. If you did . . ." The truth disappeared down her throat in a growl.

  Turning back to the table to retrieve her drink for a refill, she saw the tape recorder. She picked it up, along with her glass. Passing through the kitchen, she set the glass on the counter and took the recorder out the back door and into her garage. As she hit the button to open the automatic door, she was muttering, "So you think you'll leave this and come back later. Well, it won't fucking work."

  The door opened, and she saw Laura at her car, about to get in. She took two steps and threw the recorder at her. "Take this, dear, and shove it up your sad ass."

  The throw was wide of the mark, but it wasn't the throw, or Missy's outburst, that startled Laura. It was what she saw in the garage.

  There, behind Missy, was a silver sportscar with a Bruce Springsteen bumper sticker.

  Missy saw the change in expression on Laura's face. She did not know what had caused it, not at the moment, but there was little doubt in her mind that in that instant Laura knew.

  And Missy knew what she had to do.

  She began to shiver with anticipation . . .

  CHAPTER 28

  AS LAURA drove away, the image of what she had just seen sharpened and refused to be denied: the car in Missy's garage had to be Peter's. The Bruce Springsteen bumper sticker clinched it, there was no other explanation. What it was doing there, what Missy had to do with the killings she couldn't even guess—that was something between Missy and Sloan. But to be involved in any way . . . it made her shudder. It also, she realized, gave her new evidence that should help Felix. Now Sloan would have to listen to her.

  An accident on Arch Street had traffic bottled up, but she was so deep into her thoughts that she didn't notice it until it was too late either to turn or back up. She waited patiently, honking her horn like the other drivers around her. Up ahead she could see the mishap, a minor collision between a taxi and a truck with Oriental characters on the side, probably a delivery truck bound for Chinatown. Both drivers were out and arguing as the crowd around them grew, and not a cop in sight.

  She knew she had to hurry. Sloan was her only police contact, and he had already been on duty all night. lf she didn't get there soon she would probably miss him. The minutes ticked by; the traffic got worse; more cars jammed the streets.

  She pounded the horn with her hand, holding it down. The driver in front of her looked in his rearview mirror and gave her an extended finger. To hell with him. And then, the small distance from him was just enough to allow her to pull the Jaguar to the curb and park beside a fire hydrant. She got out, locked the car and hurried off, her walk breaking into a run.

  She was soon badly winded but she kept on running, covering the blocks to the Roundhouse. She caught an elevator and headed up. Sloan was not in his office. One of the men, said, "You just missed him. He headed home to get some sleep—"

  "When?" she was gasping, totally winded.

  "A couple of minutes ago."

  "Then I can still catch him—"

  "Yeah, maybe, if you hurry."

  She got aboard a down elevator and ran out when it hit bottom, hoping Sloan had been tired enough to be taking it slow. Success . . . she caught sight of his balding head just as he was ready to get into a car.

  "George, wait."

  He looked around and saw her waving.

  She rushed up to him. "George, I've got some news——"

  Sloan seemed nearly out on his feet but told her wearily to get in and tell him about it and make it good.

  "I've found it, the car you're looking for . . . the silver Datsun with the Springsteen bumper sticker. It's Missy Wakefields car, or at least it's in her garage . . ."

  It took a moment for it to register on Sloan. "Come on, that can't be," he said, rubbing his hand wearily across his face.

  "But it is. I've just come from her house and I saw it. It's the same car Marie described to me."

  Tugging on his arm, she said,

  "Don't you see, this proves Felix is innocent—"

  "Does it? Run it by me again, first tell me what you were doing there."

  "You know damn well. I went to see her because I couldn't let her get away with framing Felix."

  Sloan looked at her, shook his head. "Okay, hawkshaw, let's hear."

  "I talked to her; I put it to her; I told her I knew all about her trying to get pregnant, and when Felix wouldn't do it, framing him with this rape—"

  "And—?"

  "And what do you think? . . . she was her usual hateful self, only more so. I tried to reason with her, even to scare her by reminding her that the real killer was still on the loose and she was in danger because she was the only person who could identify him, but she pretty much stonewalled."

  "Laura, how does this tie in to the car?"

  "It was when she was throwing my tape recorder at me, that's when I saw it."

  "You're a hell of a reporter, you know. But getting a story out of you is like pulling teeth. Slow the hell down and tell me what happened. Start from the beginning."

  And she did, told him everything starting with her hurry-up drive to Cape May and ending with the driveway scene at Missy's, intercutting her exchange with Missy with her talks with Felix in an effort to further demonstrate his innocence. Sloan listened quietly until she finished, then said, "When we boil all this down, all you have is a visual of a car with a Springsteen bumper sticker in the lady's garage. Correct?"

  "Yes and no. At least now we know that Missy is somehow involved in these killings—"

  "Involved?" said Sloan, thinking about how Laura's feelings for Felix and hatred of Missy weren't exactly irrelevant here.

  "Well, maybe not directly involved . . . we know from Marie that she wasn't at Terri's murder. But she must know who's doing it. Please, just look at the facts, Sloan. We find Terri's body, a missing South Philly teenager. I write the story without once mentioning Marie's name, but Marie is killed. Same neighborhood, best friends, and the whole pattern of missing girls down there. It fits."

  Sloan said nothing, waited.

  "But all of a sudden the pattern changes. The same killer murders a Center City businesswoman. There's no doubt that it's the same person, but this is a dramatic shift. Why? Then, not weeks apart like in the past but within a couple of days, he strikes again, only this time the victim lives and when I go to see her I find the killer's car in the garage."

  "And therefore . . . ?"

  "And therefore, how about blackmail. I mean, Missy blac
kmailing the killer, and he comes after her. She knows what the killer has been up to. She's even loaned him her car to do it. Who knows why? She's one strange lady. She's probably getting some sort of perverted charge out of it, getting off on having him tell her about it. But now she decides that Cynthia is a problem. Why, I'm not sure, but I do know Cynthia wanted to get back with Felix. Maybe she and Missy met; maybe they argued. Anyway, Missy turns to her friend the killer and voild, Cynthia is stone cold dead. But it doesn't do any good. Felix still leaves her, and as we all know, hell hath no fury, and so forth. She turns to her friend again. This time to frame Felix, the man who had the good sense, and bad luck, to reject her. How could he, after she'd gone to the trouble of relieving him of his ex-wife . . ."

  "That's quite a scenario, Laura, but also full of leaps of conjecture that wouldn't stand up in court—"

  "All right, damn it, but at least go check out the car. See for yourself. It is Peter's, but you convince yourself I'm wrong. You owe me—yourself—that much."

  Sloan was silent for a moment.

  "Please, George."

  "All right. We'll check it out."

  She impulsively kissed him on the cheek. Front page stuff: Reporter Kisses Cop. "Thanks, George, can I wait upstairs in your office?"

  "No. This is going to take some time. Why don't you go to your office and do some of your work for a change, or go home or . . . just get out of my hair."

  "And lovely hair it is," she said, getting out of the car.

  "Jesus," he said, but a slight smile had broken through.

  "I'll be at the paper."

  * * *

  This time she walked instead of ran. Things around Arch Street had settled down, too. Gone were the Oriental truck and the taxi, and gone was the traffic jam. Everything seemed to have more harmony, more order, until she arrived at the place where she'd parked the car, and discovered it was gone.

  Her first sensation was panic. It was a Jaguar. With the way car prices were that could only mean a minimum of about thirty thousand dollars, probably more. And if some bastard stole it, she'd never get it back. Hands on hips, she looked around, maybe she was at the wrong spot, but the car was nowhere to be seen. Then she noticed the sign, which clearly marked the area near the fire hydrant as a towaway zone. Some cop had it towed while they were breaking up that damn traffic jam.

  "Damn," she muttered. "Why did I let Felix talk me into leaving my car in Cape May?"

  She hailed a cab and told the driver to take her to the car pound at Delaware and Spring Garden.

  At the pound, sure enough the first thing she saw was the shiny Jaguar inside the high wire fence. She paid the cab driver and marched inside the old bus terminal that served as headquarters for the lot.

  A uniformed policeman looked up and asked if he could help her. When she told him she wanted to pick up the car he asked for the registration. Of course she didn't have it. She tried bargaining, descended to pleading, then a mild threat of journalistic revenge, never very smart with any member of the gendarmes. No cigar.

  Finally she said, "Call George Sloan in homicide. He'll straighten it out." She could only hope he was still there. The uniform couldn't dismiss that so easily. He picked up the phone and dialed. When Sloan came on the line he talked for a moment, listened, handed her the phone.

  "What the hell now?" Sloan asked impatiently.

  She started to tell him, he interrupted and asked for the officer again.

  The officer listened, started to hang up.

  "Wait. I need to talk to him again."

  He handed the receiver back to her.

  "Any news yet, George?"

  "No. I'll call when we know something. If we do."

  She handed the phone back to the officer. "Lady, you've got friends in high places," And to one of the drivers he said, "Bring the Jaguar out."

  As she turned to go he said, "That'll be seventy dollars."

  Laura paid it without a word.

  * * *

  At her desk she went through her messages. The second one in the pile was from Sloan, in Gene's handwriting.

  "Gene," she called out across the room, "when did Detective Sloan call?"

  "Five, ten minutes ago at most."

  The drive to the paper had taken some twenty minutes. Her hand was shaking as she returned the call, and she was barely able to keep her voice steady as she asked for Sloan.

  As soon as she heard him say, "Laura," she knew it was trouble.

  "Two of my men talked to her, two of my best men. At first she didn't want to go into it, but then she told them. You were right. She did loan the car to someone, several times. But the someone was Felix Ducroit."

  She was going to be sick.

  "No, goddamn it. She's lying and—"

  "I don't think so, Laura. There's no evidence . . . And you, Laura, have plenty of motive for wanting to nail Missy and clear Felix."

  "It can't be," Laura was saying. "Terri and Marie were only the latest of that string of missing South Philly girls. He has to be innocent. My God, George, he's only been in town a few months. You know as well as I do this thing goes back. It couldn't have been him."

  Sloan felt sorry for her, enough to lay it out gently as he could.

  "Laura, we don't know that Terri and Marie were the latest. Just because they were found and their names appeared on the missing persons sheet doesn't, I'm afraid, prove anything. I think you know that as well as I do. We've never found any trace of the other girls. For all we know they're still alive, and Terri and Marie were the only two killed. Could well be the rest of them are out in Hollywood trying to get in the movies—"

  "You can't believe that—"

  "Laura, look, I just can't talk about this anymore right now. I know how you feel, and why, and I'm sorry. But I can take this just so far. I did what you asked. Now I'm going home and get some sleep before I pass out. You have my home number, but do me a favor and don't use it."

  Laura hung up, stopped the tears that had begun to form. Come on, this was no time to lose it. Felix needed her. She needed him. But what to do? So far all her moves to help had backfired, got him in even deeper trouble. Okay, she needed help, expert help. It was on the fifth floor.

  * * *

  Outside Will Stuart's office, Martha, his sixtyish secretary, was passing the time leafing through a copy of Vanity Fair, the everpresent unfiltered Camel smoking in her right hand.

  "Is he in?" Laura asked.

  "Yes, but very busy—"

  "I've got to see him."

  "Tell me about it," said Martha. When Laura finished, Martha said, "You're right. You need to see him. Wait here."

  A few minutes later three men in shirtsleeves, department heads, came scurrying out with file folders tucked under their arms. A moment or two after that Martha reappeared, patted her tight, gray curls. "He'll see you now. Good luck, kid."

  Will Stuart was seated behind his desk. He, too, was in shirtsleeves, but unlike the men who'd just left his office, his tie was still knotted at his throat, and he was wearing pale yellow paisley suspenders. He didn't seem too happy about the intrusion, but told her to have a seat.

  "What can I do for you?"

  She quickly decided from his manner it would be best to approach him on a professional basis rather than as a friend asking help. "It's about the Felix Ducroit story.

  "Yes, a nice piece. We'll run it Sunday." He seemed relieved that a reporter's ego was all that was at issue here.

  "l think you'd better hear what l have to say before you do," she said. And before he could stop her, she rushed to tell him everything from start to finish, leaving out nothing, including her personal feelings for Felix Ducroit. He listened without a comment, with building interest. "Laura, this is a story. A story, hell . . . maybe a major scoop . . . You're right, we'll have to kill your piece on him, at least until we get a resolution. But we need something for the next edition. What have you got?"

  "Nothing, because it's not over yet. Don't
worry, the other papers don't know about it yet."

  "You're sure?"

  "l'm sure."

  "Okay, go ahead. But don't you think combining personal and professional is a bit dangerous? Let's concentrate on the facts, ma'am. It might help us both to give me the pertinent ones again."

  She did, and Will listened without interrupting. When she was finished he said, "What you're saying is that to satisfy the police that Mr. Ducroit is not the guilty party, you either have to get Miss Wakefield to change her story, or you have to prove scientifically that it couldn't have been Ducroit—that it was someone else's sperm in her. Right?"

  "Right." Whatever he said, even if she didn't quite understand it, was progress. He was lining up on her side . . .

  "Also, from what you tell me, you've taken two shots at Miss Wakefield, and nothing. If anything, they made matters worse."

  "Right, again."

  "Doesn't surprise me. It sounds like maybe the lady's in a corner. To change her story now and tell the truth could make her look bad, going on speculation at this point, about how she's involved in these murders. If somehow she knew only about the first two—the teenagers—that's one thing, but if she used what she knows to cause the third one, well, that's something else . . .For her to come clean in that case could mean she'd go to prison, maybe worse, along with the killer. No, she's got too much at risk. If you're going to do anything, you've got to do it from the other angle."

  "You mean, the sperm?" She never felt comfortable with that subject. No time to be squeamish now, though.

  "Yes. What have you done about that?"

  "Nothing yet."

  "Figures." He picked up his phone, saying, "I'm going to get you started. After that, it's up to you. You're supposed to be the reporter."

  When his party answered he said, "Let me speak to him," waited a moment or two, then said, "Charlie, it's Will. I've got a reporter here who needs a crash course in sperm, spermology, whatever the hell you call it. I'm going to send her right over."