The Way You Look Tonight (28 page)

He yawned. He wanted to go to sleep, but he had work to do.

He slid off the bed and stretched. Hopefully his dead host had some sort of toolkit somewhere. He didn’t need much stuff – a saw, a hammer and some nails would do.

He pushed both hands under the mattress and heaved it up and away. Excellent. There were about twenty horizontal wooden slats that formed the base of the bed. He’d probably need about
six of them.

He dropped the mattress back and headed downstairs to the kitchen; he’d start the search for tools in there. With any luck he should have knocked up something pretty special for his
English rose by the time he was ready to go outside into the darkness and roll out the first part of his plan.

He yawned again. It was going to be a busy night.

By the time Lee had reached Key West and de-briefed his sergeant it was past midnight and too late to call Stella up at the Rockfairs.

There had, of course, been no sightings of Woods, or the slightest indication of where he might be. Lee was as certain as he could be that his man was still in Key West – although a
person-to-person call from J. Edgar Hoover, the gist of which was: ‘Let him get away a second time and you can mail me your letter of resignation along with your badge’, had hardly done
wonders for his confidence. The old bastard. When did
he
last close a case?

Sergeant Moss was in the next room writing up his report. Lee found the click-clack of the typewriter strangely comforting at this time of night: a reminder that he was not alone here in the
small hours.

For the hundredth time since first arriving in Key West, he wandered over to the window and looked down along Duval. It was still pretty busy, but the hookers had mainly taken over from the
beggars and buskers now. Lee wondered if they had an informal arrangement over shift patterns.

He thought about what Moss had told him the bar owner had said. Woods, by the sound of it, had played the part of the persecuted homosexual on the lam to perfection. But how, Lee wanted to know,
had he had dealt with the inevitable come-ons from other guys?

‘He’s a fly one, judging by what Bilson said,’ the sergeant replied. ‘When one of the other barmen made a move on him, Woods let him down easy. Explained that he
he’d been pretty traumatised by the whole police sting operation on him up in Dallas and he’d currently lost his appetite for that kind of thing. He told all the guys working in the bar
that he was in a sort of purdah. Bilson told me he had to look the word up. To be honest, sir, I’d never heard of it either. But Bilson said he thought the man he knew as Dennis Clancey
punched above his weight, brains-wise.’

‘Meaning?’

‘He says he had the impression he was unusually quick on the uptake. Well read, too. Has a copy of Milton’s
Paradise Lost
with him. Bilson said Woods used to take it with
him on his meal breaks. He also came back once from the Hemingway Museum over on Whitehead Street with a bunch of the guy’s books he bought from the store there. Offered to lend Bilson one of
them.
A Farewell to Arms
, I think he said.’

Lee raised an eyebrow. ‘My favourite Hemingway, as it happens. Read any of his stuff, Ben?’

‘No, sir.’

Lee sighed. ‘I’m not sure that knowing Woods’s literary tastes helps us any. We already know he’s a clever bastard, don’t we? Maybe he quotes poetry to them while
he’s killing them . . . sorry, Ben, that wasn’t remotely funny. It’s been a long day. But to get back to this other thing: we’re as sure as we can be that Woods didn’t
form any kind of opportunistic relationship with another man to add to his cover? Maybe give him a bolthole to go to when the crap hit the fan? It’s possible he’s hiding out in some
guy’s home somewhere, maybe killed him there and is sitting pretty while he works out his next move.’

Moss shook his head. ‘That’s a smart theory but we don’t have a shred of evidence for it, sir. Bilson says Woods kept himself to himself. Worked his shifts, was polite with the
customers but never responded to any of their chat-up lines; slept alone in his room, went out now and again to the nearest diner or burger bar. Exactly what you’d expect from a guy
who’s jumped bail and wants to lie low for a while.’

‘Hmm . . . I still think we’re missing something, Ben. I reckon I’ll go talk to this Bilson guy myself in the morning. No offence, sergeant.’

‘None taken, sir. He was pretty much in shock when I spoke to him. Maybe he’ll remember something after he’s had a stiff drink or three and a good night’s sleep.
I’ll set you up a meet at his bar at ten o’clock. That do?’

‘Fine. Type up your report and then we can both get to bed. I’ll see you back here at eight in the morning and we’ll give the guys a pep talk. Then I’ll go see Bilson and
by lunchtime we can decide what our next move should be. I know the roadblock’s working on the top line because I came through it on the way back here and watched things there for a while.
Not so much as a mouse could get past those guys. What about the boats?’

Moss laughed. ‘Nothing gets off or on the Key without us knowing about it. It’s not making us the world’s most popular with the boat owners and one rich bastard really lost it
when the boys insisted on taking a look round his yacht before he left for the Dry Tortugas. Not surprising really; he had two under-age Mexican hookers below decks and a nice big bag of cocaine to
go with. I’d say he’s looking at ten years.’

Lee grinned at him. ‘Well, it’s nice to know we’re getting some side-orders while we wait for the main course,’ he said. ‘One more thing – I’m gonna
call Stella Arnold up in Massachusetts tomorrow morning. I’d like to run all of this past her. She’ll have a fresh take on things and it might give us a steer on what to do
next.’

Moss cocked his head to one side. ‘Is it true what I heard – you two are more than just friends? That’s pretty fast work there, sir.’

Lee nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s true. God knows when I’ll get to see her again, though.’

‘I’ve only seen her picture in the papers,’ the other man went on. ‘But she’s quite a looker, if you don’t me saying so. So, she’s back in Massachusetts
now?’

Lee nodded. ‘Yup, and having a fine old time by the sound of it. Her last letter was quite something – she’d just come back from Washington with her mother over from England.
They’d been invited to the White House, met the President and Jackie there, were gonna have dinner and all – it was a thank-you to Stella for what she did down here – but right
before the soup the whole thing got called off. Some big political crisis of some kind, apparently. Stella said that the President reckoned he might have to go on TV with it, but he hasn’t,
not yet, anyway. Maybe whatever the problem was blew over.’

‘Wow. I’m impressed at all this inside information. D’you think we’ll get an invite to the White House too after we’ve nailed Woods to the wall?’

Both men laughed. ‘I reckon not, don’t you?’ Lee said. ‘You’re pretty cute, Ben, but not as cute as Stella, or her mother, come to that. Stella sent me a photograph
of them both. Either one of them would have Elizabeth Taylor running to the powder-room for a freshen-up if they walked into the same room as her . . . Anyway, like I say, I’ll talk to Stella
first thing, see what she comes up with.’

But he wouldn’t be talking to her until much later the following day, still less interviewing the owner of the Springfield Tavern.

There were going to be rather more pressing concerns to deal with first.

He threw the hammer down and stepped back to look at his handiwork.

Not bad. Not bad at all – pretty crude, but then the originals had been, hadn’t they? They weren’t supposed to be objects of beauty, for Chrisakes. The reflection made him
smile. Jesus, he could be a witty guy sometimes.

He wasn’t sure whether to leave the thing lying there on the bedroom floor or prop it up against the wall. In the end he decided on the latter, but it looked a bit unstable like that
so he sawed up another of the planks from the bed to make a couple of wedges for the base, and took the largest nail he could see from the tin of mixed screws and nails he’d found with the
tools, and hammered it through the very top part of the contraption so it was anchored firmly against the wall. He gave it a good hard shake, but it barely moved. Good. She’d never see it
like he was seeing it now; she’d have what you might describe as a different perspective.

The last thing left to do was to cut up some lengths of rope from the coil he’d found in the same cupboard as the other stuff, and toss them into a corner. That was pretty much it. He
pushed the cannibalised bed all the way across the room to give him some space for manoeuvre when the time came, and looked at his watch. It was a quarter before two in the morning.

Just time for another scotch on the rocks. Then he needed to get changed.

The hooker standing on the corner of Smith and Coral promised herself she’d quit for home after her next trick. She was getting tired. The last john, a fat little guy
with seriously bad breath, had turned out to be a royal pain in the ass. He hadn’t been able to get it up and said that meant he didn’t have to pay her anything. It had been a long
night so she didn’t bother arguing with him, just kneed him in the balls and took his wallet as he lay gasping for breath on the sidewalk. The tight-fisted, limp-dicked jerk had ended up
parting with four or five times as much as he would have if he’d played her straight. Serve him right.

Annoyingly she’d lost her watch in a particularly frenzied encounter earlier with a madly excited kid she reckoned was on his first time, so she didn’t know what o’clock it
was, but it must be close on three. Everything was starting to go quiet now.

After a few more minutes she made up her mind to call it a night and was just about to head back to her apartment where her sister was minding her kid for her – Lucy always stepped
into the breach like this when she was let down by her flaky babysitter – when a soft voice behind her said: ‘Ma’am? Excuse me?’

She jumped – she hadn’t heard anyone approach – and spun around.

‘Jesus, you scared me . . . um . . . sir?’

It was a freakin’ tranny. She could see that, even though the streetlights on this particular junction were unusually dim – they were pre-war and long overdue for replacement.
What a way to close the night.

She’d only had a couple of transvestites before and she never quite knew how they liked to be addressed, as a man or a woman, so she just waited. The guy would spell out exactly what
he wanted soon enough.

His make-up was
awful
– lipstick smeared clumsily across his mouth and deep into the corners; rouge painted with a heavy hand on both cheeks, and powder way too thick and
hopelessly unevenly applied. It was hard to tell the colour of his wig in the bad light but she thought it might be a brassy red. He was dressed in a long plaid skirt and a creased cream blouse
with a pale shawl thrown over his shoulders.

He looked like a circus clown’s comedy sidekick.

‘C’mon, hon,’ she said when he remained silent, staring at her. ‘You’re my last of the night. I wanna be tucked up in bed in half an hour at most. What do you
want to do, sugar?’ Sugar, she thought, should cover it both ways.

When he spoke, it was in the same soft voice that he’d first addressed her.

‘I want to do it to you from behind,’ he said simply. ‘I know the way I look but I can only do it when I’m . . . when I’m dressed like this. My wife won’t
accommodate me, so that’s why I’m . . . that’s why I’m . . .’ he tailed off a moment, before continuing: ‘Where can we go? How much will you
want?’

‘Fifty dollars, hon,’ she said flatly. ‘Sorry, it’s double rate for the weird stuff. I’ve had a coupla experiences this evening that have pissed me off so if
you don’t mind I’ll ask for the money up front. Want to go ahead or shall we both just go home?’

His answer was to fish somewhere inside the skirt and hand over three crumpled bills. ‘I only have twenties,’ he explained.

‘Sorry, sugar, this store don’t give change. Still want to play?’

‘Of course. Where do we go?’

‘Over here.’

She took his hand and led him around the corner to a scrap of empty ground next to a disused gas station.

‘See that wall over there? We’ll do it behind that, OK? Do you want me standing up or lying down?’

‘Standing up, please.’

‘OK, let’s go. Jeez, what’s that smell on you? Reminds me of the dentist’s. You’re not a dentist, are you?’

He nodded. ‘As a matter of fact, I am.’

She laughed. ‘Takes all sorts, I guess. Now, when you come, keep the noise down. We don’t want the neighbours complaining.’

She went behind the wall first with him following close behind, and faced towards the brickwork, placing her hands against it and setting her legs apart.

‘I’m not wearing panties, hon, so you just have to lift my skirt. Knock yourself out.’

They were the last words she would ever say. Next moment the chloroform-soaked pad was forced against her mouth and nose and after a moment’s desperate struggle, she collapsed
backwards into his arms, twitching slightly.

He took out his knife, carefully cut off all her clothes, and got to work.

It was Diana’s last day in the house on Bancroft Road. She was due to fly back to London that afternoon, and after her morning shower she decided to finish packing before
joining the others for a late breakfast.

As she crossed the downstairs hall a couple of minutes after snapping shut the latches of her suitcase, the telephone on the table near the front door began to ring. She could hear the muffled
voices of Stella and the family coming from the breakfast room, so Diana picked up the receiver.