Full Frontal Murder (26 page)

“It was Bobby you wanted all along, wasn't it? Bobby and the Galloway money.”

“Of course. As long as Rita and Hugh were fighting like cats and dogs, I thought I might as well take advantage of it.” He patted most of the moisture out of Holland's hair with the towel and started sponging off his back.

“And his grandfather is just going to let you keep him?”

“That'll be the day. He might even convince a court that he's a better guardian for Bobby than I am. But it won't matter. Walter Galloway is old and sickly—he won't be around long. Sooner or later, Bobby and his millions will come to me. Turn around.”

Holland turned so Fairchild could wash his face. “So why was it necessary to kill two people?”

Fairchild laughed dryly. “You think you're going to get all the answers so you can tell Lieutenant Marian? Haven't you figured it out yet? You're never going to see her again. What's so great about her anyway?” He lathered Holland's neck and shoulders; the touch of the sponge was almost a caress.

Holland sat perfectly still. “So why did you kill them?”

“Oh, that great fool Nickie Atlay could identify me. And the woman investigator, Julia Ortega—well, she started getting qualms of conscience. I had her writing up reports about Hugh and sending them to Rita. She didn't like doing it, and finally she balked. She actually threatened me over the phone … said she was going to the police. I don't think they could have traced me through her, but why take chances—right?”

“Oh, right.”
And that's all that was needed to end a woman's life
. Fairchild was working on his chest now, cleaning around the wounds but being careful not to disturb the scabbing that was forming. The scent of the soap was perfumy and sickeningly sweet.

Holland said abruptly, “That photograph of Bradford Ushton with the boy in the men's room—you knew who he was, didn't you?”

“Of course I knew. I thought he'd make a good suspect for your Marian, but, alas, she rejected my gift.”

So even that was part of the plan
. “You had it all worked out,” Holland said. “You've been very clever.”

Fairchild smiled. “Yes, I have, haven't I? You have nice skin. Hold your arms up.”

Holland complied. “So if Bobby will come to you eventually, why try to kidnap him in the first place?”

He laughed. “If I'd really wanted to kidnap Bobby, do you think I'd hire Nickie the Nitwit? The only reason I sent Nickie was that I knew he'd bungle the job. Rita got hysterical and accused Hugh. Hugh blew his top and accused Rita. Exactly what I wanted. They were both such fools, reacting to every little stimulus that came along. No restraint, no self-control—neither one of them. Now, stand up.”

Holland got to his feet, cautiously watching the other man. Fairchild could have been talking about a dinner party instead of kidnapping and murder, so impersonal was his account of what he'd done. The man had totally detached himself from any kind of moral responsibility. Fairchild was playing his own game, and now he was amusing himself by washing his captive.

He started soaping Holland below the waist. When his hand went between Holland's legs, Holland knocked it away.
“Watch it.”

Fairchild slapped him. His soapy hand slid off Holland's face, but the blow was still hard enough to set his ears ringing. “Must I teach you your lesson all over again?” Fairchild asked.
“You
do what
I
say. Always. Without question.”

The two men stood facing each other no more than a couple of feet apart. In the yellow lantern light, with its broad forehead and gleaming eyes, Fairchild's face looked like a skull.

Play the petulant child
. “That hurt.”

The skull smiled. “Of course it did. When you misbehave, I have to punish you.”

“You're not supposed to hit someone who's suffered a blow on the head. You could do serious damage. You're the only one I have to take care of me. You shouldn't hit.”

Holland's acknowledgment of the other man's caretaking role pleased Fairchild. “If you'll give me your word not to misbehave, then I'll give you my word not to hit.”

“I promise.”

“Then so do I.”

Holland braced himself, and Fairchild took up the washing where he'd left off. “Well, I see you don't get excited easily. What does that bitch Marian do to get you going?”

Holland didn't answer.

Fairchild washed his legs and told him to turn around. While he was soaping Holland's buttocks, he remarked, “You do have nice skin. Do you put anything on it?”

“Uh, no.”

“No creams or lotions or oils?”

“No.”

“You mean you and the bitch never heat a little oil in the microwave and give each other massages?”

“Never.”

“How boring your sex life must be. What do you see in her, anyway?”

“For one thing, she's not a bitch.”

Fairchild laughed and dried Holland off with the towel. “Defending your woman. How noble. And how conventional.” He stepped around to face Holland and looked him up and down. “Yes, I can see why she likes you. But you need a shave.”

Holland watched as Fairchild went back to the hand truck and returned with a safety razor and a can of shaving foam. He'd planned all this ahead …?

“Now we sit.” When they were both seated on the narrow mattress, Fairchild squeezed some foam into his hand and patted it on Holland's face. “This will pull a little.”

Holland sat still as Fairchild shaved him. The operation seemed to require much placing of hands on his head and shoulders. At one point Fairchild eased behind him and wrapped an arm around his neck—to steady him, he said. If Fairchild had been using a straight razor, Holland thought he would have had cause to worry. As it was, he just sat it out.

When he was finished, Fairchild wiped his hands on the towel and said, “There, that's done. Don't you feel better now?”

“Yes, much better.”

“Well?”

Holland gritted his teeth. “Thank you.”

Fairchild smiled in approval. “You are most welcome. Let's see, bath, shampoo, shave—did I forget anything?”

“Toothbrush. Toothpaste.”

Fairchild looked stricken. “I didn't even think of that! I'm so sorry.”

Holland sulked.

“I said I was sorry! I'll take care of it the next time I go out.”

Holland forced himself to smile. A little.

“Ah, a smile! You have an attractive smile, do you know that? You should smile more often. You look so
disapproving
all the time.”

“I do?”

“Indeed you do.”

“How odd,” Holland said, careful to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

What on earth do I have to disapprove of?

26

Paula Dancer sat in Captain Murtaugh's office, squinting at the TV screen.

Marian had asked the graphics technician to come take a look at the tape; Murtaugh was dubious but had raised no objection. Marian tapped her fingernail on one tiny spot on the left side of the screen. “Right here,” Marian said. “Do you see it?”

Dancer leaned in closer to the screen. “It just looks like part of the shadow to me,” she replied.

Murtaugh grunted. “That's what I said.”

“The shadowy part starts in a pretty straight line,” Marian persisted, drawing her finger along the left edge of the narrow strip of white tile that showed. “All except this one little speck here. It sticks out. Like a bump.”

The speck Marian was concerned with was high up on the screen, almost out of the picture. Dancer shook her head. “The lighting is too spotty. It's hard to tell.”

“It's just shadow, Marian,” Murtaugh cautioned. His tone said:
Don't get your hopes up
. “It's only a speck.”

“Maybe so, but can we make sure?” Marian asked. “Can you work some computer-enhancing magic on a VCR tape?”

“Sure,” Paula Dancer said. “I'll need to get that frame converted to a graphics file that my viewer program can read. You won't get a sharp picture, but I can give you an enhanced enlargement that'll tell you more than that little speck does.”

“Great,” Marian said with relief. ‘And, Paula—this is urgent. We need that enlargement immediately.”

“I'm on my way.” She ejected the tape from the VCR and left.

“Don't get your hopes up,” Murtaugh said.

Fairchild had brought not only toothbrush and toothpaste but mouthwash as well. He'd also brought two steak sandwiches and two cartons of chicken soup. Holland had devoured everything in sight and asked for dessert. Fairchild produced a bag of pears.

Holland sat munching one as his captor applied salve to his back. Fairchild's touch was soft; while one hand smoothed on the antiseptic cream, the other was fondling Holland's shoulder and upper arm.

A lot had been made of the relationship that frequently developed between captor and hostage, Holland mused. A strange form of bonding often took place … frightened women trying to mother equally frightened young gunmen, strong men becoming buddies with their captors instead of attempting to overpower them. Holland wondered if any of the studies done of the psychology of intimidation had ever included a situation quite like the one he was in now.

That Fairchild was attracted to him was obvious; what to do about it, less so. That odd attraction was what was keeping Holland fed and making sure his wounds were tended to. Fairchild had made him as comfortable as he could under the circumstances—circumstances he himself had created. But Fairchild clearly enjoyed pampering him. No question but that it was in Holland's best interests to keep the pampering going as long as he could.

Holland finished his pear and asked, “How did you find this place?”

“Pure accident.” Fairchild screwed the top back on the tube of salve and wiped his hands. “I was trying to get a picture of a homeless pair. Two androgynous bundles of rags—I never was able to determine whether they were men or women or one of each. But they had the most extraordinary faces! Unfortunately, they kept ducking away every time I had a good shot lined up. So I followed them. They led me here.”

“Into a subway tunnel?”

“Hah!” Fairchild was surprised. “How did you figure that out?”

“The times you were standing behind the lanterns. You never stood behind the one directly in front of me but always off to the sides. And whenever you threw anything away, you tossed it straight ahead. That indicated a drop-off of some sort. The lack of windows suggested we were underground. But there's no sewer smell here, no sound of water. The subway seemed a reasonable guess.”

“Very good.” Fairchild stood up and went for his flashlight. “I'll show you.” He walked into the darkness in the direction opposite to the way he came in. His flashlight played along the wall, and Holland saw the white tiling for the first time. “They tiled the wall for only twenty feet or so,” Fairchild's voice said out of the darkness. “And the platform area has been widened some here—they obviously meant this to be a subway stop, originally. But they never finished.” He came back into the light. “The tunnel goes quite a distance in the other direction.”

“Where are the homeless pair that led you here?”

“I never found them,” Fairchild said ruefully. “There are a number of tunnels branching off not far from the hole they crawled through to get inside. I don't know which one they took. But it wasn't this one.”

“And the four young thugs you hired to jump me at Coney Island? You just pushed them off onto the tracks?”

“Not here. Farther in. I didn't want to have to
smell
them.”

No, of course you didn't, you finicky bastard
. Holland wondered if there was something there he could use. “You're very fastidious, aren't you?”

Fairchild sat down beside him on the mattress. “To a degree. Not overly so, I don't think.”

“Then how can you bear to come to a place like this? It's filthy, there's no running water, there are rats—”

“Ah, but I won't be coming here much longer.”

Ohh … that didn't sound good
. Holland repressed a shiver and said, slowly, “Would you care to explain that?”

“I've given your lieutenant an ultimatum. She has until eleven o'clock tonight to close the case. Come eleven o'clock, everything is going to change, one way or another.”

“Eleven o'clock tonight. That's when you kill me.”

Fairchild shrugged, didn't answer.

“You were right, Lieutenant,” Paula Dancer said. “It's a number.”

Marian and Murtaugh peered over her shoulder at the computer screen. The enhancement showed a fuzzy but legible figure: –14. “What's that before the one?” Murtaugh asked. ‘A minus sign? A hyphen, a dash?”

“Not a minus sign,” Marian murmured. “Dash or hyphen. That's only the end of the number.”

“Right,” said Dancer. “The first part is lost in the shadow. Another number, maybe a letter or two.”

“Can't the computer bring it out?”

The graphics tech said no. “The computer needs
some
light to build on, but there just isn't any there. It's pitch-black. This is all I could get.”

“Well, that's something,” Murtaugh said. “Fourteen. Fourteen what? Or rather, what fourteen? So far as I know, bathhouses and locker rooms don't number their walls. This is looking more and more like an abandoned subway tunnel.”

“Of which there are only about a skillion under Manhattan,” Marian muttered. “Could we have copies of that? About a dozen.”

Paula Dancer printed out twelve copies for them. “You need anything else, Lieutenant?” Marian told her no and thanked her.

“Why a dozen copies?” Murtaugh asked as they moved away from the computer.