Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1) (10 page)

I went to the salon the next morning.
Shakira blew out my hair and did my makeup. That sort of thing always lifts my spirits. Don’t ask me why. Anyway, I paid seventy-five bucks for what usually costs me nothing. It was still cheaper than a session with the shrink and it accomplished the same thing; I swear.

Shakira was an absolutely gorgeous Hindu woman, four-foot-eight and in the same weight class as Tweety Bird, who chanted when she spoke. She had either attained a level of spiritual enlightenment not accessible to Occidentals, or Jorge, the salon’s proprietor, was doing her, and I’m not talking about the permanent wave in her hair. In any case, I’d only seen that kind of euphoria on the faces of those induced by narcotics. I don’t care how much Deepak Chopra you read, meditation alone will not make you that happy.

I was smiling as I entered the station house. I had been checking myself out in storefront windows along the way as I walked. I was doing the skirt thing again, the sluttiest I could get away with on the job. I had been thinking about Gus all morning. Shoot, did I say Gus? I meant Lido. I was thinking about sequestering Lido away for a nooner. I had never been prone to this type of behavior before, but now that I’d seen him naked . . . Anyway, it was good for my emotional state, seriously.

I had picked up two Frappuccinos on my way in and slid one across Lido’s desk. He caught the look on my face, checked the Mariah Carey outfit. “Oh shit!” He smiled. “So it’s gonna be that way.”

“Cold drink on a hot day, Lido. Get your mind out of the bedroom,” I whispered.

“Right!” he replied sarcastically. He bit the end of his straw and slowly stripped the paper off of it. I was in a bad way; even that got to me today. He took a short drag and ran his tongue along his top lip, playing it to the hilt.

“Don’t we have to be in forensics?” I barked. Gee whiz, what’s wrong with a girl wanting a little something-something?
Get over yourself, Lido!
Men!

Aaron Kurtz was a born-again cop. He’d actually abandoned the Hasidic community to become a forensic specialist. It started with a small ammo shop in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, and then a few night classes at John Jay. He got so wrapped up in forensic study that he traded his tallis for a microscope.

“Good to see you, Detective.”

I smiled. “Back at you, Kurtz.”

Lido gave him a high five. “Looks like you put on a few,” Lido commented, slapping Kurtz on the belly.

“Donuts,” Kurtz replied. It was true. Cops were lazy. My dad used to say that cops would reach for the closest woman or donut. Maybe that’s what I was doing with Lido, validating the law of proximity and frequency. Dad used to say that if two people were put in the same place often enough, they’d eventually end up in bed together. Great, there was something else to think about. Perhaps I should mention it to my bacteriophobic, LSD-experimenting, wannabe criminologist shrink. Nah, forget it. I was better off having Shakira blow out my hair. It was cheaper and less complicated.

“So, what ya got for us, big fella?” I asked.

“Come take a look,” Kurtz offered. He waddled off. My God, he was wide. He looked like Humpty Dumpty from behind.

Kurtz picked up a long-barreled weapon and cradled it gently in his two oversized hands. “It took me a long time, but I finally found a match.” He handed it to Lido. “Feather 9mm
RAV
,” he continued. “The markings are dead-on. Only a long-barreled instrument like the
RAV
9mm could produce the unique rifling marks I found on the slugs taken from the tramcar and basement crime scenes. I fired it through the homemade silencer. It was one hundred percent the same.”

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“Absolutely sure! In addition, the metal fibers and yellow filaments found on both gunshot victims match the materials the silencer was made from: tennis balls and steel wool.”

“Brilliant work.”

“Thanks,” Kurtz said. “Let’s move on.”

“Can we trace the weapon?” Lido asked.

“Perhaps, but it will take a long time. The
RAV
9mm is available by mail-order in all fifty states. They sell these things like hotcakes. Every wannabe commando has one. Great target machine: light, accurate, breaks down one, two, three. These findings will help you convict, but you’ll have to find your perp some other way.”

“I’ll add the information to our computer search all the same,” Lido said. “You never know.”

It pissed me off. Our perp was still in the driver’s seat. We didn’t know anything he didn’t want us to know. Twain had offered to help, but I had declined. Perhaps I shouldn’t have looked a gift horse in the mouth. Perhaps it took a freak to catch a freak. I was starting to get a little crazy, but nowhere as crazy as Twain, and by the time I could reach that level of dementia, New York would be a ghost town.

Lido and I banged egos all day.
It got in the way of us being cops, which was the last thing I wanted to happen. “Proximity and frequency,” my father’s words kept reverberating in my head; two good-looking young people in the same place all the time. I was determined to be a cop first and a woman second, but for those of you who are female, you just go and try.

Lido met me outside the stationhouse. “Hey, I’ll buy you a beer.” Lido had the most incredibly brown puppy-dog eyes. You know the kind I’m talking about, the kind you can’t say no to.

Lido took me to a place called Café Remy, a Latino club down by the South Street Seaport. After two Coronas, I was three sheets to the wind. I had never danced to salsa music before, but if you’re scoring on originality, I think I did pretty well. Technically, Italy is one of the Latin countries and I’ve got an ample supply of rhythm. At twenty-eight, I can writhe and grind with the best of them. It wasn’t what I had planned, but it eliminated the need for talking. The whole place shook from the driving bass beat. Sometimes talking is overrated, isn’t it?

Lido knew what he was doing. His moves on the dance floor were smooth. I shot him an accusatory glance, the kind that says, you’ve done this before. “I didn’t know you were such a gigolo.” Lido looked at me strangely. He couldn’t hear me above the music.

“What?”

“I said I didn’t know you were such a gigolo. “

“What?”

“You’re a slut!”

“Oh.” He heard me that time, Guys love being called sluts. The suggestion really turns them on. He winked, spun me around, and began running his hands up and down my legs, tantalizing me with his fingertips. I’ll have to remember that he likes that.

There was a Latino couple at the bar. They were doing calisthenics with their tongues. The guy had his hand up his date’s blouse. Who was I to be outdone? I ground my butt into Lido and gave him the dreamy-eyed look. God, don’t they have air-conditioning in this joint?

Lido’s arms were around me, holding me tight. It felt so good. I wanted to unzip him and let Little Lido out for a merengue.

We danced for hours and became drenched, our skin glistening, our libidos steaming. I looked over at the bar. That couple was still doing their oral calisthenics. They were now up to Jane Fonda’s advanced tape. You know, the one where you have to bend backwards until your head is just below your privates. “Hey, let’s throw a bucket of water on those two. I’ve got to sit.”

Lido smiled. I kissed him on the neck. He was as salty as a bag of Lays potato chips, the original kind. He told me to stay put. He turned and maneuvered his way through the crowd. I saw him talking to one of the gargantuan bouncers. The next thing I knew, we were upstairs in the private lounge: quieter, cooler, and with far fewer inhabitants.

We started making out. In the middle of a tongue bath, I said, “You’d better take me home. Displays of affection are one thing, but I draw the line at public fornication.” Most guys would have reached down into that muddy testosterone well and dredged up something stupid to say, but Lido didn’t say a word. He just hugged me, gave me a kiss, and took me home.

FBI agent, Herbert Ambler pushed the packet holder containing artificial sweetener across the table toward me.
“We’re well stocked here, blue stuff and pink stuff. Name your poison.” He smiled wryly.

I selected a pink packet and winked.

“Pink for girls?” Ambler mused.

I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. I didn’t care to address the gender thing. “Carcinogen of choice. The other stuff grows furry little balls on female laboratory rats. Don’t need those. “

Lido smirked. “No, you don’t.” He was trying to be cute, which I chalked up to SBS,
Sudden Boyfriend Syndrome
. I wanted to grab his leg and make him scream like a coyote at the height of lunch hour, but Ambler would have jumped on that in a second. Behind the bifocals were the eyes of an eagle. He was smart and savvy, the whole enchilada. I played it cool. My beau’s comment was innocuous enough, typical guy/gal partner stuff.

Lido grabbed a handful of the granulated white and added six packets to his iced tea. I just rolled my eyes as he stirred.

“What?” Lido asked, catching my expression. “It’s tough to dissolve.” He wore a quizzical expression.

“Now we know why you’re so—”

Lido flicked an intimidating finger in my direction. I should have known better. “Don’t even think about it, Chalice.” Ambler laughed as he wolfed down his hefty chicken-salad club. I figured it was time to move on.

One more playful little quip and Ambler’d have us cold. “Women are dying, Ambler. What’s the Bureau got for us?” I saw him switch gears, which was exactly what I wanted. The best defense is a strong offense.

“Almost nothing you haven’t heard already,” Ambler replied.

I eyed him squarely. He was playing with us. “Then what are we doing here?”

Ambler held up a wedge of his sandwich. “Best chicken salad in lower Manhattan. Thanks.” He added a shit-eating grin for good measure.

“Who said
I
was buying? Come on, Ambler, tell us what you’ve got,” I implored.

“Can’t I finish my lunch first?”

“Come on, Ambler, stop dicking around. Tell me something or I’ll empty my clip into you.”

Ambler put down the sandwich reluctantly. “All right, he’s a kisser.”

Lido edged forward. “I don’t think I heard you.”

Ambler touched his finger to his cheek. “Your perp kisses, lays a big, fat, wet one on his victims during the snuff. Both Ellen Redner and the bleach-blonde computer geek had traces of saliva on their right cheeks.”

“Why didn’t our boys find that?” Lido asked unhappily.

“The city’s resources suck,” Ambler explained. “If you want good assay, you’ve got to go federal. We’re cross-typing the two DNA samples. Results will be in shortly.”

“What are we supposed to do with that?” Lido asked. “I mean it’s something, but not much.”

“Patience, Detective.” Ambler shifted in his chair and picked up his sandwich. I watched him play Lido. I knew Ambler too well. There was more. “Lysergic acid diethylamide.”

That brought me a smile. “So our boy’s a user,” I ventured.

“Long term, Chalice. Preliminary DNA analysis shows genetic deformations on the chromosome bundles from both samples. It’s consistent with long-term use. LSD is a mutagen. We found traces in the saliva.”

“I love you, Ambler.” My smile beamed across the table. Put enough money out on the street and something usually came back. That’s the way it was in the drug world. The only problem was separating the good information from the bad. Chronic stoolies are often unreliable.

“I can start making calls.” Lido drained the last of his sugar water, wiped his chin and stood up. He knew exactly what to do, Snitches and Informants 101. His derriere was at eye level now. Bless his heart; he had a butt you could bounce a quarter off of.

It was an effort, but I finally pulled my eyes off his rear end and met his gaze. I’ll catch up. I want to squeeze the Fed here. Who knows what else he’ll give up?” I winked. Lido seemed disappointed that I wasn’t leaving with him. I’m sure Ambler saw it too.
Lido, you’re such a dope.

“Fine. Catch ya back at the house.” Lido saluted Ambler with two fingers. “Much obliged.”

I followed Lido until he was outside the restaurant before turning back to Ambler. “Thanks.”

“Ain’t no thang.”

“Spare me the urban shtick. You’ve got about as much soul as Al Gore.”

“Ouch! That was cruel.”

“You love it when I’m cruel.”

He chuckled. “How’s Ma?”

“As always.”

“Still sneaking the chocolate bars?” I nodded. “Some things never change.”

“I guess not.”

Ambler washed down his meal with coffee. “That wasn’t half bad.” He rubbed his tummy.

“I’d hate to see how you wolf down something you really like.”

“Same old Stephanie. So, how long have you and Lido been an item?” He glared at me, defying me to refute his claim.

“No. Absolutely not.” I shook my head and squirmed in my chair. “You’re way off base here.” I fished in my purse, took out my compact, and started checking my face. Girls are allowed to do that, even if they are cops. Ambler just sat there and waited. The old pro knew to follow his instincts. I milked the makeup thing as long as I could,

“Two attractive people: opportunity and proximity.”

“You sound like my father.”

“He was one terrific cop.”

“Bet your ass he was.” I don’t know why I got so defensive. After all, Ambler was like an uncle to me. I could tell him if I wanted to. I just didn’t want to.

I spotted Twain on the aisle, eighth row back, at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.
He was cloaked in black, a hood veiled his head. The heavens rumbled outside. Storm clouds gathered. The closing of the cathedral’s heavy door behind me restored silence. It was a quarter past four. The great church was mostly empty. Dim light filtering through the stained glass painted Twain in a gothic light. I kneeled and blessed myself before approaching him.

“A Chalice in the house of the Lord? You honor me, Detective. You honor me by seeking me out.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“By your walk, Detective. It’s distinctive, like the strut of a panther.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“As you wish. I suppose skepticism is a valuable trait in an investigator.” Twain rose. I could see him glance at me from behind his hood.

“I love the cloak. Versace?”

“Testy, Detective? You must be haunted by nightmares.”

“I’m haunted by a great many things, Twain, you among them.”

“Once again, flattery.” Twain slid farther down the pew. He gestured to the space he had vacated and lowered his head. I sat down, facing him. “This cloak gives me comfort and you’d be surprised at how little attention it draws.”

“I’m sorry you feel the need to hide.”

“One does not need a cloak in order to hide, but I see that it’s losing its effectiveness. Saint Patrick’s is a poor setting for a therapy session. Why didn’t you call for an appointment?”

“I’m not here for therapy, Twain. I came for help with my case.” Damn, it hurt to say it. It was hard admitting that the psychopath had stymied us. Days were passing without us getting any closer to our killer. I wasn’t too proud to ask for help.

“Oh. The other matter, is it? The well being of citizens before that of your own? That’s admirable.” He was so handsome that I just couldn’t stand it. Cloaked and behind a mask, it was like sitting next to a dark knight. “It’s all right, Detective, let the defenses down. We all need help from time to time. I’ve helped many over the course of my professional career.”

“We think our psychopath uses LSD. We found traces of it in the saliva he left on the cheeks of the two female victims.”

Twain’s eyes sparkled. “He kisses them? How intriguing. He loves his victims, Detective. He loves them very much.”

“Then why does he kill them?”

“Crimes of passion, Detective. You can love someone and still cause him or her pain. It happens every day. You know that. I’m sure he has a good reason for taking their lives, a very good reason. Go on, I’d like to know more.”

“We’ve been combing the streets for a week, looking for our perp’s connection. No leads. He’s getting his stuff from a source we’re not familiar with.”

“And so you’ve come to me, your resident expert on psychedelic drugs. You know, Detective, I haven’t been involved with hallucinogenic drugs in several decades. It’s so sixties. “

“I love it when you’re flippant.” He chuckled in that lovely, deep, British tone. I could feel it echo within me. I wondered what he was wearing under that cloak. Was he bare beneath the black silk?
Stephanie, my God, you’re in church.

“Ah, the mystical LSD. Is it powerful medicine or the devil’s drug? I know LSD. I know it well. It can be a lovely maiden or the ghastly hydra. It all depends, doesn’t it, Detective?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

Twain focused on the statue of the Blessed Mother. “Why do people alter their minds, Detective? They do so in order to see things differently. Haven’t you ever wanted to see differently, Detective? Individuals have used it to gain profound insights into the nature of religion. I used it as a microscope into the psyche, and the army has used it as an instrument of destruction.” He turned to me and smiled slyly. “Most use it to get blitzed.” In spite of the tension, we both laughed. “Good, laughter is so very often the basis for cure.”

“I’d like to use it to find a murderer, Dr. Twain. Can we use it for that?”

“Let’s pray.” Twain lowered his head again and closed his eyes. Is this guy for real? Twenty seconds passed, thirty. “Your mouth’s agape, Detective. Is it so bizarre to petition God for his support?”

My mouth was open. I closed it quickly. “You’re praying for him to help with the case? That I don’t believe.”

“Astute of you, Detective. It’s so hard sitting here alone with you.

“What?”

“Your mouth’s open again.”

“Look, Twain, try to remember that I’m a cop.” I shot him a scowl for good measure.

“You’ve got absolutely gorgeous legs.” I tugged down my skirt, couldn’t cover up as much as I wanted to. “It’s no use, Detective. LSD has heightened my senses forever. I can see you as if you were wearing nothing at all. It’s a gift.” I wanted to slug him, but his smile was sinful. I don’t know how I kept from blushing.

Change the subject, Stephanie. Distract him.
“What were you praying for?”

“A cure for my phobia, to live as part of the germ-infested world, to take you in my arms and ravage you.”

I shot out of my seat. “For Christ’s sake, Twain. One more crack and I’ll slap a pair of grimy cuffs on you.”

He bore a look of tortured nobility. “Enslave me? You are such a tantalizing little minx. Yes, very well. Put me in irons.”

“Man, you’re fucked up!” I bolted out of the church, angry, scowling, hot, and confused.