Naked Cruelty (32 page)

“The guy's brilliant,” he said, hanging up.

“Slipped through our fingers,” Nick mourned.

“Yes, but Ike Masotti set eyes on his face,” Carmine said, “and while he may have attempted disguise hiding in the Hochner bushes, he didn't have the time or the facilities to do anything dramatic. The cops who saw the cripple later might not have been so lucky, so it's Ike's description we go on. Who was his partner?”

“Muley Evans.”

“What's he like?”

“Sharp. We'll get a good drawing.”

It was long after midnight before
Didus ineptus
went to earth. The red windcheater had been turned inside out to display its black side, and the MacLeod tartan pants were now showing their black lining. Thank his lucky stars for the verdure of Carew! He had gone nowhere near his car, still parked on Persimmon; the walk to his
own
car wasn't impossible for someone who kept in shape by walking. When he hid to reverse his clothing, he dismantled the crutch and polished every inch of it outside and in. They'd not nail him with a print inside, even if they had the wit to think of it. Then he pushed the sections deeply into a bush and walked on, a man of ordinary mentality clad in black. Who wasn't accosted at all. The crutch and flashy clothes had been a part of Plan C, an escape which he wouldn't use again. When pulled up by three different sets of cops—one on foot (the first) and two in squad cars—he had given a sad, braying laugh that branded him as slightly retarded and been let go without being asked for so much as his name. It was worth noting for the future that a man in black who didn't want to be seen tended not to be seen, even if he didn't behave furtively. Black is better, black is definitely better! For flashy apparel, be retarded.

On the border of Carew and Busquash was his rented apartment; he let himself in, still wearing surgeon's gloves, and undressed. The stash of clothing was folded carefully and slipped through a manhole in the hall ceiling; they were too hard to get, necessitating a trip to New York City and theatrical suppliers, so while the apartment lasted, he'd hang on to them. After that he donned hiking gear and shouldered a new knapsack, filled with exactly the things a hiker would need for the Appalachian Trail.

On the border of Busquash and Millstone was his own car; he reached it without seeing a cop, got in and drove away. If a cop should stop him, he had his story straight.

But no cop did. Home at last, he realized he was ravenously hungry, took a Stouffer's lasagna from the freezer and used the forty minutes heating time it gave him to put out his pajamas, secret the knapsack in his special place, and revel in a shower. Refreshed, clad in silk, he opened a bottle of French claret and sipped the wine with relish; no guzzling for
Didus ineptus
!
It had been a close thing tonight. He never wanted a closer. The killer in him slavered at the thought of putting paid to Catherine dos Santos, but the survivor in him was stronger. There were other names in his book, other lives to take. The fucking bitch had tricked him, and, in tricking him, had evaded him forever. He would not be going back to vent his rage on Catherine dos Santos. Thinking that, he raised his glass.

“Here's to the Holloman police,” he said, smiling. “May they think me a vengeful man and waste their time!”

The police artist's drawing was interesting because no one recognized it. And that could not be.

It showed the face of a brown-skinned man in his forties, dark haired and dark eyed, with a beaky nose and a wide, thin mouth. There was a general impression of a damaged mind.

“This means he was in make-up for the attack,” Carmine said, and, to Ike Masotti, “It really looks like him?”

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, Captain, but it's what my mom would call a speaking likeness,” Ike said.

“Bearing no resemblance to the guy the Hochners had noticed creeping around.”

“Yeah, but the Hochners are notorious,” Ike said. “Their guy was probably reading meters. This is definitely the guy I saw.”

“Ike, you did better than you can realize. Your drawing shows us what we're up against. Thanks a lot.”

Ike departed, scratching his head.

“Why do you think this isn't the Dodo—or rather, that it's a Dodo in disguise?” Helen asked.

“Because Dr. Meyers has a general description of the charming man who had a long conversation with four of the rape victims,” Carmine said. “He had light brown hair, light brown eyes, and a fair skin. His mouth was full and his nose only slightly beaky.”

“Perhaps the man the victims saw was also in disguise,” said Delia. “He's very clever, so he will have taken it into account that we might elicit descriptions from the Sugarman parties.”

“He must present as bulky before he enters his victim's apartment,” Nick said. “Combat fatigues, and under them, another outfit as brightly colored as he can make it without looking any more than dressed in bad taste.”

“And under the gaudy outfit, yet another, I think,” Carmine said. “He didn't seem to be on the street as retarded and lame for more than a few minutes, yet no one saw him enter a car and drive away. He must know the location of every tree and bush in Carew, and as soon as he saw no cops anywhere, he was back into the bushes for a quick change into something dark and inoffensive. Has a crutch been found?”

“No, despite a thorough search,” Nick said.

“Did he abandon it? Or lug it home under his clothes? It seems he lugged it home, strange as that might be. His reasoning is beyond me!” Carmine slapped a hand to his brow. “To make matters worse, Sugarman himself can't identify any victim's drawings. He swears that he had no gate-crashers at any party. That means—no, it can't!”

“Means what?” Delia asked.

“That he made-up for one conversation—impossible!”

Delia squeaked. “Not really impossible, Carmine, if you think about it. Say he spots his quarry on a sofa grabbing a little rest from the bash, nips into the lav, makes himself up. If she's still there when he pokes his head out, he's on the sofa next to her as slick as a rat goes up a sewer pipe. If she isn't there, he nips back into the lav and takes his make-up off. He's full of gall—certainly he doesn't lack it, now does he?”

“Oh, that's too much!” Helen cried.

“No, Delia, I see where you're going,” Carmine said. “It
is
possible, even if not very probable.”

“He must have an ego bigger than Tokyo,” Nick said.

“Well, we know
that
! How else can we fit all the pieces of this puzzle together? Parties, especially good ones, are about as easy to keep track of as the rails in a freight yard. They criss-cross perpetually. However, it does tell us one thing.”

“It does?” Nick asked.

“Yes. It says that the Dodo is fair in coloring. All his make-up has been brown, including light brown. Come on, guys! We've all had instruction in disguise—felons do resort to it, otherwise we wouldn't have to sit through slides showing what blue contact lenses do to brown eyes—very little. Whereas if the eyes are light in color, it's easy to change them with lenses of almost any color. We can say that the Dodo's eyes are blue or grey or pale green, and his hair, at darkest, is a light brown. If he keeps a beak shape to his nose, then it's probably straighter than that. Narrower too.” Carmine's voice had grown excited, his hands moving expressively. “Skin has to be fair, and the bones of his face prominent. This guy's cheeks are plump. Think of the Turks who shot Josef von Fahlendorf down in Munich—you know you're not looking for fair gunmen. But if fair gunmen wanted to give an impression of Turks, it would be easy. Just thick, black hair and brown skin.”

“Oh, oh!” cried Helen. “The von Fahlendorfs could have been the gunmen! They were, Captain, they were!”

Carmine shot her a look of scorn. “No, they were genuine Turks. Why keep a dog and bark yourself?”

“Carmine, dear!” Delia exclaimed. “You've just widened the Dodo pool of suspects enormously.”

“No, diminished it. Holloman's a place of many, many dark people—African, Mediterranean. There are far fewer fair.” He sputtered, grinned. “Hard to say that! Far—fewer—fair.”

“Where would you draw the line?” Delia asked.

“At Mason Novak, speaking of Gentleman Walkers. Don't forget there were bunches of them at every Carew party. He's basically red, which doesn't exclude him. His eyes are a very light brown.”

“Or, at the other end, Kurt von Fahlendorf, though he's been busy being kidnapped,” Helen said.

“Bill Mitski,” said Carmine. “Arnold Hedberg. Mike Donahue. Though if the Dodo is a Gentleman Walker, he'll be easier to nail. We use the line-up. The rape survivors must have recovered enough by now to try identifying their attacker.”

“No, Carmine, you can't do that,” Delia said quickly. “It's too demanding for the women, who haven't recovered enough. I'm sure that's what Dr. Meyers will say. No, I'm right!”

“Of course she was right,” said Desdemona.

“I was hoping you'd be on my side,” he said, disgruntled.

“Not when it has to do with the effects of rape.”

“Okay, I'll leave it.”

She leaned over to kiss the top of his head. “Thank you, dear heart.”

“How are things with you?”

“Much better. I don't break down anymore. Julian is turning into a human being, believe it or not, and Alex is just divine. The sweetest little chap, quite different from Julian—oh, he was sweet at six months too, but looking back, I can see the germ of Julian the defense attorney. It was in the way he looked at me—measuring me up. Alex slobbers.”

“Slobbers?”

“Pools of drool.”

“I haven't noticed,” Carmine said, surprised.

“You don't have breasts, Daddy. Alex is far more like you than Julian is. Loves his food, does Alex.”

“That
does
bode well! Not a defense attorney type.”

Julian burst into the room, arms stretched out, and landed on Carmine's lap. “Daddy, Daddy!”

“Hi, Captain. How's the sub tonight?”

“Oh,
him
! I'm in the Wild West now, Daddy.”

“Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill Hickock, huh?” Carmine asked, racking his brains for Wild West heroes not famous for killing people, and very conscious of Desdemona's presence.

“No, I'm Julian Delmonico, and I round up steers faster than anybody else on the Chisum Trail!”

Prunella flourished a large book. “It's hard to find one that's not full of shoot 'em up dead, but I try, Captain.” Her voice changed to command mode. “Bed time, Mister Delmonico! I am the boss of the roundup and you are a mere cowboy, so ride 'em!”

Julian's goodnight kisses were entirely dutiful; he let out a piercing shriek. “That's me, rounding up!”

“It's a wild country with a wild past,” Carmine said to Desdemona when they were alone. “He's half Calabrian, and you Brits haven't always been peacefully inclined. You even had a civil war. I know you find the prospect of raising two sons in America appalling—is that why you're depressed?”

Her rather plain face grew plainer, as it always did when she was unhappy; the pale blue eyes were teary. “No, I don't think so,” she said. “I really don't, Carmine. After all, you stand for law and order.”

He crossed to her chair and squeezed himself in it beside her, one arm around her shoulders. “Yet twice you've had to get yourself out of danger,” he said, throat tight. “Lovely lady, that's a part of the law and order. We've been married now for nearly three years, and I can't live without you. Every time you feel blue, remember that.”

“That's the trouble,” she said. “I do.”

Sitting up, he turned her head so that he could see into her face. “Does that mean you've thought about
leaving
me?”

“No, of course not, silly! More that I worry about you in your job, I think. You're right, this is a wild place. It's—it's gun-happy! You even had to teach me to shoot, remember?”

“That was common sense, Desdemona, nothing else. The odds are infinitesimally small, yes, but I'd rather be sure than sorry.”

“I won't be able to deflect Julian from guns for much longer, will I?” She sounded desolate.

“Not when he plays with Ceruttis and Balduccis, I'm afraid. But you can't forbid him to play with his peers either. That would isolate him. And you can't tell me that British kids don't play with toy guns. Sure they do! Violence is entrenched.”

“Yes, but how many kids find a gunman in their backyard?”

“That's unfair. Neither American nor British kids.”

“Unless their father is an
American
cop.”

“Not even then. It was a simple quirk of fate.”