Don't Look Now (27 page)

‘The original?’

‘Original?’

‘The three-page document. The one you just faxed for me?’

‘Oh, how stupid.’ Jeff Trimble turned a bright and remarkably even shade of crimson. It seemed to devour him. He handed the woman her papers. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s quite all right, young man. You have a nice evening.’

She turned and left the store. As Jeff watched her walk to her car, a white BMW, he thought she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in his life.

He could tell that her daughter, sitting out in the car, was going to be a knockout one day too.

PARIS WAITED UNTIL
he saw the fire before he dialed his cell phone. Danny Lawrence had barely turned the corner on to East 115th Street before the first flames began to appear. Paris knew that if he had called it in immediately after getting out of the house and the fire hadn’t broken out for another ten minutes, he would have had a very hard time explaining it. He imagined that the woman had gone somewhere where there was a fax machine – Kinko’s, OfficeMax, Staples – and called, sending a couple of pages down the wire and out of her machine, sending the tea candles onto the rug.

He didn’t know if the woman was still in the area, still watching him, so he remained on the RTA platform across the street, out of sight. Paris hoped that she hadn’t seen him talking to Danny Lawrence, or, if she had, that she had given him credit for enough sense to have kept his mouth shut around a cop.

Besides, he wasn’t all that anxious to run into a burning building anyway. He would simply have to hope that the CFD would arrive in time to save some key piece of evidence to link her to the Pharaoh murders.

But as he heard the muffled pop of the liquor bottles exploding he knew it would all go up by the time the first engine company arrived. Within minutes, the roof and eaves were shooting bright orange flames high into the night.

Paris sprinted back to his car, opened the trunk, retrieved a damp, sweatshirt out of his gym bag, pulled it over his head. He also pulled out his backup weapon, along with a spare holster and a box of rounds. Although he had been forced to give up his revolver inside the cottage, he had, luckily, managed to get his shield and ID out of his pocket and down the front of his pants before running out of the house. He got in the car, turned over the engine, cranked the heat up to high and turned north on Murray Hill, not having the slightest clue as to why he was heading in that particular direction.

The coffee at Bengal’s was rarely fresh, but it was always strong and hot. Bengal’s was a soul-food place on Carnegie, about halfway between his apartment and the Innerbelt. He didn’t know if he’d have to go east or west when he got the call, but he wanted to be ready when it came.

He got out, checked his phone for the tenth time, making sure he had good signal strength. He paced for a few minutes, got back in his car, sipped from the Styrofoam cup, tried to put this nightmare in order.

Who the fuck was doing this to him? Was it Diana? And if it was, how could he have been so wrong? Was it the Hellers? He still found that hard to believe.

And where the hell was Cyndy?

And where the hell was Beth?

He fingered the weapon in his shoulder holster and watched the slow, sparkling parade of hookers as they walked up Carnegie, swinging their purses like world-weary schoolgirls.

* * *

Saila called at nine-fifteen.

Paris looked at the LCD screen, at the caller ID and, for a moment, thought he was misreading the display. He turned on the interior light and found that he had been right in the first place.

It was his home phone number.

He flipped open his phone, but remained silent.

‘I feel as if someone has stolen all my dolls, Jack.’

‘Then just leave my apartment,’ Paris said, trying to build some momentum. ‘We’re even. Leave Melissa there, take off, and we never did this, okay?’

The silence that greeted his seemingly reasonable suggestion was deafening.

‘You really are a shitty housekeeper.’

The woman’s voice was still synthesized, but it sounded as if the batteries were fading.

‘I know, I know,’ Paris answered. ‘But let’s—’

‘I mean, you’re a very attractive man, but this place is not going to get the job done. You know what I mean?’

‘Saila.’

‘And what have we
here
?’

Paris heard the sound of rustling papers and then, mercifully, a brief
woof
from Manny. At least
he
was okay and at the right place. The room then went quiet for what seemed to Paris like a full minute but in reality was no more than fifteen or twenty seconds.

‘Some interesting reading material here. Aileen Wuornos? That roadhouse pig? You were actually reading up on this? You actually thought that there were similarities in these cases? What an insult.’

Paris could feel the conversation slipping away from him. He said nothing.

‘What else do you have on the case?’

‘Not a thing. I swear.’

‘You fucked me over at Shaker Square. Why should I believe you now?’

‘You think this job means more to me than my
daughter
? There was nothing in my car because there isn’t any evidence. The prosecutor’s happy with Tommy Raposo and that’s that. The case is closed.’

‘Then why won’t
you
give it up?’

‘I’m done,’ Paris said. ‘I’m off it.’

The woman went silent for a few beats, the digital processor filling the void with a hissing sound.

‘Maybe I’ll just walk into the kitchen, Jack. Maybe I’ll just stroll into the kitchen and carefully pick up one of your sharper knives – one just loaded with your fingerprints – and stick it into Melissa’s chest. How would that be? Leave her right in the middle of your living-room floor in a big, dark pool of blood. Then it’s bye-bye Daddy. Bye-bye anchor around my fucking neck.’

‘No.’

‘Or maybe I’ll just take this straight razor and send it off to the authorities. Anonymously, of course. Because I’m pretty sure that the state police are going to be very interested in it, considering the fact that there’s the body of a Peeping Tom pushing up lilacs in the woods near the Motel Riverview.’

Paris’s skin crawled. She was talking about Andrea Heller’s husband. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not sure how it happened, but your fingerprints are on one end of the razor and this dead pervert’s blood is on the other. Can you believe it?’

‘You can’t possibly be
serious
.’

‘And if that wasn’t enough, detective,’ she continued, her voice dropping to a deep, almost manly whisper, ‘how do you intend to explain away the woman you barbecued tonight on Tarleton Street?’

Paris felt his stomach turn. ‘
What?
’

‘The exhibitionist. The Peeper’s wife. She was
alive
, Jack. That’s what she was. Tied up and chloroformed, but alive. Up in the attic.’

‘You
mother
fucker!’

‘The heat might have brought her to before she went up in flames though, seeing as she was covered in kindling and newspapers. Some oily rags too. I really can’t see anyone sleeping through something like that, can you?’

The horrors were piling up faster than Paris could sort through them. He had to think, had to find her weakness. He went for the obvious.

‘Look,’ Paris said, ‘I’ve got some cash, poker cash, it’s stashed in the basement of the building. It’s yours. Maybe five, six grand.’

‘Men are so predictable. You think everything in this world revolves around your cocks or your cash flow, don’t you. You amuse me so.’

It sounded to Paris like she might be ready to hang up. ‘Don’t—’

‘But, on the other hand, I
will
take the money. Where is it?’

Paris described the location in the basement.

‘Hang on.’

Paris heard the phone strike something soft, then fall silent. He heard the door to his apartment open, its familiar creak filling him with a rush of fear. When he figured she had begun her way down the stairs, he spoke.

‘Missy. Can you hear me?’

Silence.

‘Missy, if you can hear me, make some kind of sound.’

Nothing. Paris looked out at the street, at Carnegie Avenue, and calculated that he was twenty blocks from his apartment. He’d never make it.

Paris heard a quick snort of breath into the mouthpiece of the phone, then the rustling of material? Clothing? Paper? Was someone listening?

He was just about to call out again when he realized that it was Manny, trying to figure out why his master was inside the telephone.

‘Manny.’

The dog barked once, but the electronic voicebox changed it into something birdlike. Then Paris heard the door creak again. Then, quick footsteps toward the phone and Manny’s nails scampering away on the hard-wood floor.

‘I’ve decided that I don’t believe you about the evidence. And I’ve got to get going.’

‘Wait.’

‘I usually go out on Friday, but Saturday’s okay too, I suppose. Especially now that I have a new partner. Right, Melissa?’

Paris’s heart all but stopped.

‘Oh, she’ll come around. But she has a hell of a lot to learn, I think. Who better to teach her than me?’

‘Just let me talk to Melissa for five seconds. Just let me know that she’s all right.’

‘I don’t think so. We’re leaving. Girls’ night out.’

‘Don’t.’

‘I know you’re going to look for us. You could try looking in the backyard, next to the sandbox. Maybe we’ll call you later, or maybe not. Maybe we’ll hit the kiddie bars. Maybe we’ll pick up a couple of sailors and head off to Atlantic City.’

The woman laughed and the sound frightened Paris to the bottom of his soul.

‘Don’t hang up.’

‘Use your head, Jack. I want everything you have on the Pharaoh case. And if you bring anyone in on this, if you talk to one other cop, I’ll hurt you for the rest of your life.’

‘But there isn’t—’

‘
Everything
.’

Paris opened his mouth to speak but was met instead with a brief, antiseptic click.

Then, the coldest silence he had ever heard in his life.

How was he going to tell Beth? He decided he wouldn’t, he couldn’t. He decided he would call her, take the heat over being so late and tell her that Missy was going to stay at his place.

He was lucky. Beth was either on the phone or not home when he called, and he got her voice mail. He left what he thought was a fairly convincing message.

He turned his phone over and over in his hands. Who the hell was on his team? Tim Murdock was out of the question. Way too blue. Greg Ebersole would help him and keep his mouth shut, but Greg was probably two sheets to the wind by this time of night on a Saturday. Bobby Dietricht was far too ambitious to ask for this huge a favor. He would never be able to pay it off completely.

No. Paris knew he couldn’t take a chance on another cop, not as long as this psycho had Missy.

He flipped open his phone and called one of the few people on the planet he felt he could trust.

* * *

‘I have to tell you how thrilled I am that you know I have absolutely nothing to do on a Saturday night,’ Rita said.

‘Actually—’

‘I’m usually working on Saturday, you know. It’s not like I can’t get a date or anything.’

‘I’ve got problems, Rita. Big-time. I could really use your help.’

‘On-the-phone help or in-person-and-I-might-have-to-leave-the-house help?’

‘Leave-the-house help,’ Paris replied.

‘Okay,’ Rita said. ‘But there’s no way I’m doing this with dirty hair. Give me twenty minutes. I’m at 2018 Fenton Place.’

Rita Weisinger’s apartment was bohemian and funky. Inexpensive but functional furniture, with a few fairly interesting reproductions on the walls. On one wall was a bookshelf that held nearly as many romance paperbacks as Paris had found at Samantha Jaeger’s flat. Rita may have had the same tastes in literature but, thankfully, was a lot more in touch with terra firma than the very spooky Miss Jaeger turned out to be.

‘Before you fill me in, is this a drink-mission or a coffee-mission?’ Rita asked.

‘Coffee.’

‘Black, one sugar, right?’

‘You’re amazing.’

‘It’s a gift,’ Rita said. She poured him a cup, placed it on the coffee table and sat down. As she listened, she ran a wide-tooth comb through her slightly damp hair.

Paris began the story by relating the events of 21 October of the previous year, the night he had gotten the call to investigate a suspicious death. A woman named Emily Reinhardt. He ended the story by placing a photograph of Missy on the table in front of Rita. He had told her everything.

‘Plus, I can’t get hold of Cyndy. I can’t get hold of Diana. I can’t even get hold of my ex-wife,’ Paris said.

Rita put the comb down on the coffee table and stood up. She reached out her hand to Paris.

‘Let’s do it,’ she said.

EVERY LARGE CITY
has its sexual underground, people who, for the most part, don’t function very well in the sunlight. Paris was well aware that Cleveland, even with its high-profile escort services and suburban sex clubs, was essentially a blue-collar town. And that meant that while some of the games played may have lacked the imagination, the
élan
of New York or Los Angeles, they seemed to make up for it with the sheer depth of their depravity.

Paris stopped at his apartment and changed clothes while Rita waited in the idling car. As expected, every drawer and closet had been turned inside out, every bit of research he had done on the Pharaoh case was gone. Manny was fine, but seemed to be wandering around in a fog, wondering why every smell in his entire world had been relocated.

When Paris saw the loop of twine wrapped around the legs of one of the wooden chairs pulled up to his dining-room table, his heart trip-hammered. Had Missy been tied up at his table? Would she, could she, ever get over something like that?

He sponged himself off quickly and put on one of Tommy’s Armani blazers. He ran a comb through his hair.

Rita, who was young-looking for her age anyway, had understood completely what they had to do, as well as the very nature of the danger they were about to court. She wore a short red-and-white-checked gingham dress and a matching ribbon in her hair. She wore white anklets and flat shoes. Considering the inevitably subdued lighting in the places they were heading, she could easily pass for sixteen.