by John Lutz
“I’ll tell him you said that.”
“Oh, he’ll understand. Your Captain Quinn is a mensch and would, I am sure, make a fine father. You two have been romantically involved for a while now, so I know that marriage is on the near horizon—”
“Not that I can see.”
“—and once that happy event occurs, God willing, there still is time, if barely, to create that which you will hold as dear as I hold you.”
“Quinn and I are content as we are, Mom.”
“You think you’re content, dear. As did your father and I, until you came along, and like little Rebecca—”
“Mom, stop it. If I get pregnant, you’ll be the first to know.”
“No, you will be the first, and then you’ll understand every word I’m telling you now of a mother’s best wishes for the daughter she loves. In an instant it will become clear to you.”
“I really don’t have time to talk, Mom. I’m helping to track a killer who’s murdered—”
“Your eggs, Pearl.”
“My what?”
“Have you checked to be sure you’re fertile? I mean, with a doctor, of course.”
“I don’t want to talk about my eggs.”
“I think we can be reasonably sure that the virile Captain Quinn—”
“You’re starting to break up, Mom.”
“There is someone I want you to talk with, Pearl.”
“About what?”
“You and Captain Quinn. And your . . . arrangement.”
“What arrangement?”
“Shacking up, Pearl. To put it crudely but not without accuracy. After all, if you’re going to have a child—”
“But I’m not pregnant, Mom. And I don’t intend to get that way. And Quinn and I aren’t living together.”
“Cohabiting, then.”
“Sometimes,” Pearl said.
“Meaning your clothes are in his closet. I shrug, Pearl.”
“Mom—”
“As a favor to your mother, and it’s seldom enough that I ask for one, will you just talk to this person, Pearl?”
“Who is this we’re discussing?”
“Rabbi Robert Gold.”
“I thought you said a person.”
“A rabbi is a person, Pearl.”
“Rabbi Gold and I have nothing to discuss.”
“You can say that never having met the man?”
“I can,” Pearl said. “I did.”
“Pearl, someday Rebecca—”
Pearl flipped the phone closed, breaking the connection.
Talking to her mother was like a debate with the Spanish Inquisition. Win or lose, it was torture.
40
Jefferson City, 1992
The room was small and gray and square. A single rectangular wooden table and two wooden chairs were bolted to the concrete floor. The overhead light fixture was made up of two softly buzzing fluorescent tubes encased in a wire cage. It provided the only illumination in the room. The light was pale and ghastly. The temperature was warm. The odor was a blend of perspiration and lingering fear.
Vincent Salas sat directly across from Westerley. A guard in a uniform that was way too small for him stood outside the single door that had a tall, narrow window in it so he could glance in now and then and see that everything was going smoothly.
Westerley had told the guard it was okay to go ahead and remove Salas’s handcuffs. There was no reason for Salas to make trouble. And if he did, Westerley would welcome it.
Salas was thinner than when he’d stood trial and had already acquired the dusty gray pallor of the longtime convict. He went with the room. His dark hair was cut military short, and the flesh around his sad dark eyes was finely lined. Westerley thought Salas was one of those cons who would age fast behind the walls.
“Are we here to talk about my parole?” Salas asked in a husky voice. He still had at least the vestige of a sense of humor.
“We’re here to talk about your letters.”
“My cigarettes, did you say?”
Westerley gave him a grim smile and pulled two unopened packs of Camels from his pocket and tossed them in front of Salas on the table. A standard form of prison bribery that never seemed to change. Or maybe by now it had become simply good manners.
“I’m rich,” Salas said, and scooped the packs close to him and tucked them in his shirt.
“You didn’t say thanks,” Westerley said.
“That’s because I know they aren’t free.”
“Something else that isn’t free is using the U.S. mail to harass Beth Brannigan.”
Salas settled back in his chair, acting like a man in control. “I think I have the right to correspond with whoever I want to on the outside, so long as the letters pass the censor.”
“I’m going to see that they don’t. And you’re not corresponding with anyone. The letters only went in one direction.”
Salas studied him. “You puttin’ the salami to Beth? Because I never did.”
“Sure, you’re innocent. Like almost everybody else in here.”
Salas touched his chest lightly with his fingertips. “But I am innocent.”
Westerley leaned toward him. “What you’re not anymore is a letter writer. Not if the letters are to Beth Brannigan.”
“What if I get a lawyer and insist on my rights?”
“Your lawyer would tell you that, as a practical matter, you’d better find another pen pal.”
“Practical the same as legal?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes not. This is out-state Missouri and we got certain traditions. Even if you behave in here and somehow get out in ten or fifteen years, I might not be sheriff any longer. But whoever my successor is, or his successor, if you write any more letters to Beth, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
Salas showed no reaction. Penitentiary face already, Westerley thought.
“My guess is you’d make a small mistake that could be regarded as a parole violation,” Westerley said, “and you’d be back here like you were snapped back by a rubber band. That’s if the parole board never saw your letters and granted you a parole to begin with. You start your stretch by harassing your rape victim via the U.S. mail, and the odds are you’ll grow old here and deteriorate along with the buildings.”
“I guess you got them letters in your possession.”
“I do. And I’m gonna hold on to them. And there aren’t gonna be any more of them, or I’ll see that you don’t have to wait ten or fifteen years to wish you’d never learned to write. You’ll limp all the rest of your miserable life.”
“A threat?”
“You betcha. An actual physical threat. But just between you and me.”
“Maybe Beth likes my letters. Maybe she’s in love with me.”
“Like she loves garbage.”
“Some women do love garbage.”
“If she was one, I wouldn’t be here. Anyway, she only read the first few letters. She turned the rest over to me unopened.”
“But you opened them.”
“Sure. I’m the sheriff.”
Salas closed his eyes, as if he didn’t want Westerley to see the thoughts behind them. Then he opened them and smiled. Westerley was liking that smile less and less.
“Can I smoke in here?” Salas asked.
“It don’t matter. I’m leaving shortly.” Westerley leaned in close and locked gazes with Salas. Held steady until he won the staring contest. When Salas looked away, Westerley clutched his face by the chin between thumb and forefinger, as you might do with a recalcitrant child, and swiveled his head back so they were looking at each other again. “You write any more letters and I’m gonna see you alone in another room where there won’t be a guard within shouting distance. You get my meaning?”
Salas didn’t seem scared, but he was paying close attention.
Westerley squeezed Salas’s lower jaw harder and gave him a grim smile. “We got us an understanding?”
Salas said something like “Eyah.
”
Westerley released Salas’s chin but made sure their gazes were still locked.
Salas didn’t look away this time. His dark eyes were flat and emotionless, maybe the way they’d been when he raped Beth. Westerley knew the distance in those eyes; he’d driven Salas’s sick and evil demon well back in its lair.
“If she ain’t opening the letters anyway,” Salas said, “I don’t see any point in sending more.”
“I’m glad you got that straight in your mind.”
Westerley stood up, then went over and rapped a knuckle on the door as a signal to the guard that he was leaving.
“Go easy on the cigarettes,” he said, with a glance back at Salas. “Those things are killing lots of rats on the outside.”
41
New York, the present
The Skinner had learned the doorman’s routine easily enough. As usual, the man in his absurd quasi-military uniform left his post untended when he bustled down to the corner to hail a cab for someone leaving the building. By the time he was helping his charges into the cab and receiving a liberal tip, the Skinner, unseen, was on his way up in an elevator. Since he was in his deliveryman uniform and carrying a package, anyone glancing at him would have paid him little attention. He was as much a part of the décor as one of the potted plants, and about as memorable.
It was easy for him to slip the apartment door’s knob lock with his honed credit card. He then made short work of the dead bolt with his lock pick.
He wasn’t surprised when he eased the door open and found that the chain wasn’t attached. Judith Blaney was dining out with friends on the other side of town. Probably they would stop someplace else for drinks after dinner. She’d be pleasantly tired when she got home, anxious to kick off her shoes and go to bed. The friends she was with were all women, so Judith was almost certain to arrive home alone.
She’d be surprised when she closed the door behind her and wasn’t alone. The Skinner, an expert at his grisly passion, would take full advantage of that surprise and have her helpless even before she had time to cry out.
He tucked the box, in which he carried his tape and instruments, beneath his arm, and with a glance up and down the hall pushed his way into the apartment.
The Skinner locked the door after him but left the chain off, so when Judith came home she’d think everything was as she’d left it and the apartment was inviolable and waiting for her with its comforts and safety. Her world would seem tight and secure and unchanged.
The killer knew how important unchanged was.
Familiarity was easily mistaken for security. It made for denial that lasted until the end. Well, near the end.
The Skinner smiled, turned, took two steps, and drew in his breath.
He stood still, staring at the man casually seated on the sofa. The man had his hands folded in his lap, his legs crossed, and was staring back at him.
Not a large man, the Skinner told himself. Slender, but with a coiled kind of look about him suggesting a wiry strength. He was wearing pale gray slacks, a black blazer, and no tie. Almost absently, he slid a hand into one of the blazer’s side pockets, but the implication was clear. There might be a gun in that pocket.
The Skinner’s mind was spinning, calculating.
The police? Had they somehow guessed Judith Blaney was to be the next victim?
No. I don’t see a badge. And only one man.
And not a very intimidating one.
If not the police, who?
Then he remembered the other man he’d seen in the vicinity of Judith. Two hunters on the trace of the same prey?
It was possible.
Given the circumstances, maybe even likely.
The Skinner felt grounded again. Though not exactly in control, he was sure he could get on top of this situation even though he didn’t entirely understand it.
“I’m here to make a delivery,” he said amiably.
The man on the sofa laughed. He had neatly aligned features that somehow just missed being handsome. His wavy black hair was combed straight back, as if he were perpetually facing a wind.
“What’s funny?” the Skinner asked.
“You coming to make a delivery, when I came here to give something to you.”
“What would that something be?” asked the Skinner
“An alibi.
“For what?”
“The murder of Judith Blaney.”
“You out of your mind?”
“Like you are. But we want the same thing.”
“Which is?”
“Judith Blaney dead.”
The room seemed to have developed its own heartbeat. The Skinner was breathing softly and evenly. Whatever the hell was going on, there was wriggle room. He’d be able to work something out, even if it meant leaving here with two dead bodies in the apartment.
“I was released from prison six months ago after serving time for a rape I didn’t commit,” the man on the sofa said.
“I know who you are now,” the killer said. “Judith Blaney pointed you out as the man who attacked her. Your conviction was overturned because DNA proved you were innocent.”
“And I know who you are,” the man on the sofa said. “I know what you’re doing and I heartily approve of it. I know you need alibis for the . . . well, for certain nights. I can provide them.”
“Why should you?”
“You’re going to do to Judith Blaney what I was going to do.”
He drew from his pocket not a gun but a theater ticket. He laid it on the sofa arm, snapping it flat as if it were a card he’d pulled from a new deck. “This is a ticket for a play at the Berman Theater, Tables Turned. You seen that play?”
“No. I’m not much for the theater.”
“I bought it at the box office, paid cash. It’s for tonight’s performance. You still have plenty of time to get there before the curtain goes up.”
“Why should I go see a play when I don’t like plays?”
“So if the police question you about Judith Blaney’s murder, and where you were tomorrow night, you’ll know what you’re talking about when you refer to Tables Turned.”
“Aren’t you kind of ahead of events?”
“Yeah. And that’s a good place to be. I did hard time in prison because of Judith Blaney. I want her dead. Obviously I can’t kill her, because the police will be all over me as soon as she turns up not breathing.”
“Then you’re the one who needs an alibi. Not me.”
“And I can have one, when I know for sure what night she’s going to die.”
“Can you know that?”
“Yeah. Haven’t you been listening? It’s tomorrow night. I’ll be sure and have a solid alibi. Tomorrow evening, you go wait with the ticket holders outside the Berman Theater or in the lobby, and do something to make yourself memorable. Nothing drastic. Maybe pretend to trip over something and almost fall. Or get into a little argument about somebody crowding ahead of you. That kinda thing.”
The man on the sofa paused, waiting for the Skinner to say something more. The Skinner didn’t.
“But you don’t go into the theater auditorium,” said the man on the sofa.
“Why should I? I already saw the play last night. Tonight.”
“Exactly. Instead you filter away without anyone noticing, and come here, and wait for Judith.”
“And?”
“Then you have your fun. Just like you were going to do tonight. Only you can prove you were at the theater. At least a few people from the lobby or waiting outside in line will remember you. You can describe the play. To top it off, you’ll have a ticket stub.”
“I won’t have a ticket stub for tomorrow night’s performance.”
“Yes, you will. I’m going to give you one. If it isn’t a stub, it’ll have a bar code on it. They do that so tickets can’t be counterfeited or used twice. There’s only one bona fide ticket for that seat on that night, and it will have been used, and you’re going to have it or its stub.”
“What about the people that sat next to that seat?”
“They’ll recall that somebody sat there, but they won’t remember who, not by the time the police finally get around to checking on you. They won’t even recall if it was a man or woman. Besides, you’ll have the canceled or torn ticket. And the ticket will have been paid for in cash. There won’t be a record of who bought it.”
“Where you gonna get this canceled or torn ticket?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll get it, and you’ll have it. We’ll meet the day after Judith’s murder, and I’ll give it to you.”
“And you get what out of this?”
“Judith dead. As the prospective prime suspect, I can’t kill her myself.”
“But you know I’m going to kill her anyway.”
“That’s true.”
The Skinner studied the man on the sofa for a long time. Then he came to a conclusion and smiled. “You don’t have the balls to kill her.”
“That’s true, too. My years in prison . . . took a lot out of me.”
“I’ll bet,” the Skinner said. “And I bet I know how. You and Judith Blaney have got something in common now.”
“Never mind that. I’ve been following Judith, trying to scare her, I admit. But she knows I won’t hurt her. I can’t. The police’ll be on me even before her body drops. When I noticed you were watching her, too, I figured out who you must be. I thought of something that’d be good for both of us, and neither of us can talk about it in the future or we’ll mess ourselves up. We’ll both be safe. I won’t have Judith to brood about any longer, and you’ll have an alibi for the time of her death. Not a perfect alibi, but one good enough to hold up if they don’t have much else in the way of evidence. And I’ve been reading about you. You don’t leave a lot of evidence.”
“I don’t leave any.”
“Still . . .” The smaller man shrugged. “A little insurance . . .”
“You could simply have let things take their course and made sure you had an alibi for the time Judith left the world.”
“Let’s call having somebody else kill the bitch my insurance. I’m never going back to prison.”
The Skinner thought about it and decided he really didn’t have much choice. He didn’t want to kill this little poof. That would be too messy and complicated. The way to neutralize him was to make him an accomplice.