BLUE MERCY (24 page)

As predicted, Eales had again waived his right to have James Grogan present, doing so with a hint of amusement on his ugly face. And as he stared across the narrow table now, Kay was beginning to doubt the bargaining power of her cigarettes. Patricia Hagen probably stocked Eales with enough to outfit his entire cellblock.

Kay kept an eye on Eales’s hands, free of the irons this time. In his left, the burning ash of the Camel sizzled down to his nicotine-stained fingers. His right was under the table. Kay saw a slight rhythm of movement in that forearm and hoped he was only scratching his crotch. When he tossed the last of his cigarette, he squashed it under the sole of his sneaker, his ankle swollen and pink, bulging with spidery veins.

Kay drew her gaze up. She could tell Eales was eyeing the cut on her lip from her bar brawl the other night. Curious, but not bold enough to ask.

“That’s a nice watch, Bernard,” she said.

He’d been reaching for the smokes again, paused, checked the time, then grabbed the pack. The watch looked expensive.

“Patricia give you that?”

“Maybe.”

Kay wondered how long before he traded it for drugs. “She sure takes care of you, doesn’t she?”

He ignored the comment, tapped a cigarette out onto the table. When it rolled toward Kay, he left it. Slow revolutions gaining momentum. Only as she was about to reach out to stop it from spilling over the edge did Eales make his move.

She’d forgotten how fast the son of a bitch was.

His meaty hand shot out, slammed down on the cigarette, nearly catching her hand. She jerked back, but not quickly enough. Kay felt the moist heat of his palm. The thickness of his fingers.

He smiled, brought the cigarette slowly to his lips, and lit it with the easy grace a high-society dame might afford a cigarillo.

“I bet Patsy brings you lots of things, hmm?” she asked.

He shrugged. Examined the lit cigarette between his fingers.

“After all, she owes you, doesn’t she, Bernard? Owes you a hell of a lot.”

“Wadda ya mean?” His eyes narrowed.

“I saw the letter.”

“What letter?”

“The one you had tucked in your dictionary.”

When he lurched forward, it was more the sudden clatter of his leg-irons than his movement that made Kay jump. She kicked herself mentally for the reaction.

“What the hell you messing with my shit for?” His words hissed through crooked teeth and his sour breath spilled over her.

“I didn’t mess with your stuff. I’m trying to find answers. Your brother gave me permission to enter your house.”

“He shouldn’t have done that. It’s not his house.”

“We talked to Patricia this morning. I showed her the letter.” She and Finn had pulled up to Patricia Hagen’s home just as she’d been stepping out of a Yellow Cab at 10 a.m. They’d followed her up the walk, but this time Patsy refused to let them in.

“She said it never happened.” But Kay remembered the tremble that had taken over the woman’s hands as she
held the letter. “She says her father never touched her.”

Eales’s mouth was a red slash.

“That’s why you never sent the letter, isn’t it, Bernard? You knew that, even if her father did do those things, Patsy would never have supported it. But she owes you, doesn’t she? It’s because of you that Hagen stopped molesting her, isn’t it?”

There was a distant look in Eales’s eyes then, and Kay imagined he was reliving the day he’d confronted Hagen. She pictured the old man’s throat in Eales’s big hands.

“I think it’s a good thing what you did, Bernard. What Hagen was doing to his daughter, to Patsy, that’s just wrong. No man should get away with that. And you stood up for her. You saved that little girl, didn’t you?”

She hoped to see his expression soften. But there was nothing.

“Is that why you made the false allegations against him?” she asked.

“You mean about the negro-feel-ya?” he pronounced it. “They weren’t false. Cops just didn’t prove it. Didn’t want to.”

“So they’re true then?”

“And
you’re
gonna believe me?”

“Yes, Bernard, I will.”

“Great. So what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t think there’s anything I can do. Necrophilia isn’t a crime in the state of Maryland. We might have been able to go after him for defamation of a body, but that was fifteen years ago, Bernard. I can look into what the statute of limitations is, but—”

“Forget it. You ain’t gonna do nothin’ about it.”

“Sure I would, Bernard. If you help me.”

When he looked at her then, Kay finally saw interest
spark behind those blue eyes. The connection she’d been waiting for.

“I need to know who helped you dump the women,” she said. “The night Valerie Regester saw you in Leakin Park, who was with you?”

“No one.” His voice was flat. The spark gone as quickly as it had appeared. “I was dumping my trash. Why don’t you go to the park and check it out, huh? No one ever did that. Why don’t you go there, ’stead of sittin’ yer skinny ass in here wasting my time.”

“Bernard, you’ve got nothing
but
time. I think you can afford a half hour. Now, we both know you dumped Roma Chisney’s body in the park. Those women were killed in your house. Who helped you get rid of them?”

“I didn’t kill nobody.”

“Oh. Right. They committed suicide. Sorry. Then who helped you dump those suicide victims, hmm?”

The tip of the Camel flared.

“Was it Jerry Bates?” she asked.

“You been talkin’ to Jerry?” The flicker of worry in his eyes was so fleeting Kay wasn’t sure she’d seen it or if her desperate need for answers had put it there.

“Jerry’s a good friend of yours, huh?” she asked. “You two spent a lot of time together. Getting high together.”

“So?”

“Did you ever do anything else together?”

Eales offered no reaction.

“Was Jerry with you the night you brought Annie Harris home?”

“Which time?”

“The time she ended up dead.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Was he there the night you brought Roma Chisney home?”

“Dunno.”

“Maybe
he
killed those women, hmm, Bernard?” she suggested, offering him some wiggle room.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Maybe it was
you
helping
him?”

But even given that out, Eales wasn’t biting. His lips made a smacking sound around the Camel.

“Was it Jerry who was with you when you dumped them, Bernard?”

With the pinkie of his cigarette hand he picked at some dirt under a nail, then tore a hangnail from his thumb with his teeth and spit it across the holding cell.

“Was it Jerry who helped you get them out of your car trunk?”

“Hey, where
is
my car anyway?”

She considered not allowing the divergence, then said, “Police impound.”

He shook his stubbled head, his eyes going to the floor. For a second Kay could have sworn she saw genuine sadness behind those blue eyes. “That was my granddaddy’s car, you know. He drove her all the way down from Canada in ’62. Only made ’em up there. Nineteen fifty-nine Pontiac StratoChief. Best damn car. My mother let it rot in the back alley for years. I put a lot of work into that beaut, and now she’s stuck in some fucking police lot.”

Kay could almost see him withdraw, as though his mind had taken him back to the alley behind his Gettings house, polishing the big, black Pontiac.

“Who helped you, Bernard?”

She watched him withdraw from the memory.

He took a deep drag on the cigarette.

“I know you couldn’t have done it on your own.”

His reply was a cloud of blue smoke.

“Okay.” Kay backed off. Eales wasn’t interested in any
“outs.” “So what if I told you I think you’re too stupid to have pulled off those murders by yourself?”

The half-smoked Camel hit the floor, instantly crushed under his sneaker as his leg-irons dragged across the steel-cased chair. When he leaned over the table now, Kay couldn’t be sure if he hoped to intimidate or impart a secret.

“Oh, yeah?” His whisper was laced with spent smoke and sarcasm. “Well, what if I told you I thought you were so fucking smart that you shoulda bin able to figure all this out yourself by now?”

Kay stood, needing space.

From her briefcase she removed the folder of photos she’d prepared. She hadn’t known if she would use them, if she’d give Eales the opportunity to get his rocks off, but she was running out of avenues.

The photos hit the table one after the next. Five in all. Beggs in the alley—pan shots, close-ups. One from Jonesy’s camera at the OCME. “So what can you tell me about these?”

Eales’s eyes feasted on the images. Again, Kay wondered if she saw worry flicker in his features. Then something resembling a smile touched his dry lips. Then: “Nothin’.”

“Her name’s Bobby Joe Beggs. She worked along Wilkens Avenue. You know her?”

“Nope. Am I supposed to?”

“What about the way she was killed? Anything look familiar?”

“You mean the way she hacked up her wrists like that?”

“Yeah. The same way those women did in your house. Is there anything you want to tell me about her, Bernard?”

“How the hell you figure I know anything about this?”

“I think you do. I think whoever helped you with those other women, I think he did this.” She gathered the
photos. His gaze followed each into the folder. “Either that, or you have one very enthusiastic fan out there.”

“Well, how ’bout that.”

“I want to know who helped you.”

“Nobody.”

“Come on, Bernard. Was it Jerry?”

No response.

“No. Wait, maybe it was Patsy. How badly
does
she owe you, hmm, Bernard?”

This time when he exploded across the table, even the guard at the door jumped. This time, though, Kay was ready. She didn’t move.

“You leave her out of this.”

“So was it Patsy?”

“Fuck no.”

“Then who?”

With his big arms crossed over his chest, Bernard Eales appeared finished. But she couldn’t let it go. Not yet.

“I tell you what. If you answer my questions, maybe I can do something about your car. Get it out of impound. Maybe get it up to your brother.” She lay one photo onto the table again. “If you won’t tell me who, then at least tell me this: Whoever helped you, whoever was there for you when you had to get rid of those bodies … could they have done this?”

She could almost see the answer forming behind those clamped lips, sense the desire to give her something in return for his car. It was right there, as if she could reach out and take the answer from him.

But he was silent.

“Did you ask this person to take care of Valerie Regester so she couldn’t testify? Or maybe he thought Valerie saw him and now he’s protecting himself. Is that it?”

Nothing.

She slid the photo closer. “Do you think that person could have done this?”

The silence swelled, broken only by gates slamming and a warning buzzer bleating into the wing’s hot, stale air. It was useless. He’d shut down. She’d come close, but now she’d lost him.

“Fine,” she said at last, gathering her briefcase. “I’ll tell you what I think, Bernard. I think you
didn’t
kill those women. I think someone else did and you blacked out. Then, when you found them dead in your tub, you were willing to believe
anything,
including the ridiculous coincidence of three women committing suicide in your house. I’m thinking there’s someone else who’s behind those murders,
and
these new ones. And you’re too fucking stupid to have even figured it out yet.”

The feet of her chair grated against the polished concrete.

Only when she started for the door did he speak again. “Why you doin’ this?”

“Doing what, Bernard?”

“Talking like I didn’t kill them women.”

“Did you?”

He grunted. When he stood, his hands habitually came together at his groin, aligning with the steel rings on the leather waist belt. “Why you tryin’ to prove I’m innocent?”

Kay crossed the shallow room. Stopping three feet from him, she stared into the merciless eyes that had looked down into her bloodied face a year ago. “I’m not, Bernard. And you’re hardly innocent. I’m only after the truth. That’s my job. Even if it means getting your lying ass off the hook.”

“SO NOW YOU’RE THINKING
this mutt Bates was working with Eales?” Gunderson leaned back in his chair, dry metal springs groaning beneath him.

“Well, the guy certainly fits the bill,” Finn said. “We have a car on his place right now.”

Kay watched a vein pulse along Gunderson’s temple. Within fifteen minutes of her returning from the Pen, Sarge had called a meeting. Vicki had already been seated in his office when Kay and Finn filed in. And as an old, steel-bladed fan thumped rhythmically in the corner, rustling the papers across his desk, they’d caught Sarge and Vicki up on Beggs, Bates, the Hagens, and Kay’s interview with Eales.

“And what exactly do you have on Bates?” Sarge asked. Behind his desk he looked weary and pasty. Broken. As if retirement were no longer some vague notion.

“Enough to make us want to get in his house,” Finn said. “A search warrant might produce a connection to Regester or Beggs.”

“And what’s Eales got to say about his buddy?”

Kay shook her head. “I can’t read him. I pushed him on Bates, but … either Bates isn’t involved or Eales is a good bluffer. So, I agree with Finn, a search-and-seizure would help.”

“Any way you can put him with this last victim Beggs?”