Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (14 page)

"You cannot come here on a whim. I have other
patients, Mr. Weatherby." It was like a slap when she didn't
call him Loring. Had he done something that wrong. . . He hardly
heard her when she said, "If you feel you need to see me more
often we’ll talk about it tomorrow. Perhaps we can arrange
something, but you may not just break in on me whenever you feel like
it. Do you understand?"

Only too well. His mother had said it that night.
Yes, he understood. Why didn’t she? Didn't his needs count? He felt
something building in him that he'd never felt before. Because of its
unfamiliarity he couldn’t put a name to it. It was rage. It filled
his chest, expanded it until he felt it would burst. His heart was
beating with the strength of someone pounding on a door.

"Now you really must go," he heard her say.
"I'll see you tomorrow at our regular time . . ."

What she saw on his face made her reach out and touch
his arm to reassure him. It was the first time she had ever touched
him, and it calmed him. What was she saying to him? What did she want
from him? Did she really want him to go, or did she want him to
protect her? To drive the man on the couch away and take his place at
her side. All she had to do was to say it and he would move mountains
for her.

They walked to the door and she turned, leaving him
alone in the hall. As she crossed the office she felt his eyes on
her, and she wanted to tum and look at him but she didn’t . . .she
didn’t know if she could handle the look on his face. She would
make it up to him, give him extra time and attention . . .

He heard more than saw the door close, and knew she
was gone from him, back to the man on the couch. He crept back into
the office. There had to be something here to help sort out the
confusion. A sign. Something to begin again with. He saw the closet.
He opened the door. Inside was her coat and scarf. He touched the
scarf. It had her scent. A lady's token,like Lancelot and Queen "G."
He took it and left.
 
 

CHAPTER 10

MERCANTO WOKE up to find himself in strange
surroundings. He was groggy and in bed, that much he knew. The room
was bright, and he could hear noises in the background, but he didn’t
know where he was or how he got there. All he knew was he felt like
he'd been on a long drunk. When he tried to move a sharp pain in his
chest stopped him. He raised his hand to his face and found a small
tube taped to his cheek and running under his nose. Air from it was
blowing up his nostrils.

He wanted to say, "Where am I?" but the
words came out, "What day is it" and he heard someone
laugh.

He raised his head painfully. At the foot of the bed
were four people . . . a nurse, Captain Zinkowsky, Sloan and
Catherine Poydras. All except the nurse had worried looks on their
faces.

"You’re awake, good," said the nurse. She
took his pulse in a businesslike manner. Satisfied with the results,
she turned to the others. "You can talk to him now, but because
of the anaesthetic he probably won't make much sense."

The nurse left, and the captain and Sloan came and
stood beside him. Catherine Poydras hung back.

"You were shot . . . Catherine found you,"
the captain said. Mercanto raised his hand. Catherine, a petite woman
in her forties with hennaed hair, came forward and took it. "Thanks,"
he said.

"When I closed the restaurant, I saw you in the
parking lot. Mon dieu, I thought you were dead."

He managed a laugh, and the physical act of it sent
spasms of pain through the chest. "That would never do. It would
be bad for business. Two in such a short time," he said, trying
to make her smile.

His little joke made an angry look cross her face.
She pulled away from his hand. "Men," she said, but she
looked more like her old self as she said it.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Sloan
asked.

Mercanto tried to sort out his thoughts. "I went
to the park . . . while I was sitting there a kid came up to the car
. . . tried to rob me." Mercanto raised his head, trying to get
his eyes to focus. "Did he get my wallet and gun . . . ?"

"No."

"
Good," he said, and let his head sink back
on the pillow.

"You should have given them to him," Sloan
said.

Mercanto smiled. "And have you ream me out?"

"The doctor fished the slug out. It hit a rib,
broke it. If it wasn’t from a .22, like the one that killed
Hightower, you'd be dead. Looks like you found our man," Sloan
said. Mercanto thought back to the parking lot. He shook his head.
The movement sent the pain through him again. "It was an old
Western Colt he had. I thought it was a .45."

"They make them in .22, too," Sloan said.

"Thank God," Mercanto said, and meant it.

"Can you describe him?" said the captain.

Mercanto stared at the ceiling for a minute. "A
teen-ager . . about sixteen. White, six feet, dark hair and clothes .
. . on a bike."

"
From the neighborhood," said Sloan.
"What'd he say to you?"

"He said I had a flat . . . like a damn fool I
got out to see . . He pulled the gun . . . I tried to talk him out of
it."

"Why didn’t you shoot?" asked the
captain.

"Rudy Gunther. . ."

"This time you should have," Sloan said.

"Maybe next time I’ll get it right,"
Mercanto said.

The captain said, "You’re tired. Time to talk
later. We'll send someone around for the details when you've had some
sleep. You’ll be on leave, six weeks convalescence."

An alarm bell went off in his mind. "My brother
. . . you didn’t tell him about this, did you? He’s sick. It
would only worry him."

The captain said, "No, we didn’t notify him.
We were waiting to see if you were okay."

"Don’t . .

"
Whatever you say."

As they turned to go, he said, "What about the
case . . . ?"

"We'll take it from here. Don’t worry,"
said Sloan.

The next morning he was released. An officer from the
district drove him home in a blue-and-white. They’d already brought
his car, it was parked in front of his building.

The stairs to his apartment seemed to take forever.
His chest was taped tight, each breath sent a sharp pain from the
broken rib. He downed two of the painkillers they'd given him and
sank into bed.

His sleep was of drugged dreams of the shooting.
First he was himself, then he was Hightower, staring at the
teen-ager. The muzzle of the gun looked like a cannon, and each time
he saw the shot fired it was trailed by flames like a rocket. He woke
drenched in sweat, again not knowing where he was. The day had
passed, the room was dark. In his confusion he wondered what woke
him, then he heard the sound. Someone was knocking on the door. He
struggled to his feet and made his way to the living room.

"Just a minute." His voice was hoarse. His
head was pounding.

He fumbled with the door, then realized he hadn’t
locked it when he came in. "Some cop you are . . ." he
said. He opened it and saw Sloan standing there.

"
How are you feeling?"

"Like hell."

Sloan followed him in and turned on the lights. "I
was shot once."

Mercanto lowered himself into a chair while Sloan
stood watching. Sloan opened a bag and pulled out two Budweisers. He
popped the top on one and handed it to him. Mercanto took a sip while
Sloan took off his coat. The cold bitterness helped, and his head
began to ease. They sat quietly. Midway through the second beer Sloan
said, "Feel like talking?"

"Not much to tell. I said it all in the
hospital."

"I'm not talking about that. When a guy gets
shot it does things to him."

"It hurts. Period."

Sloan accepted it. "What were you doing there,
anyway?"

"
I couldn’t sleep. The case was on my mind so
I went out there to see if I could piece anything together. I spent
the day talking to Hightower’s employees, especially a woman he saw
on the side. She said he’d been distant, gloomy for the past few
months."

"What do you make of it?"

"The more I think about it, the more I think
drugs. The cash withdrawals, and you know how coke changes a person.
That would explain his moods, coming down after a big night."

"I agree. If he was dealing that would explain
how he and the kid were in the park at the same time." Sloan
took a sip of his beer. "We've got everybody out looking for the
kid. When we find him we should be close to solving the case."

He stood up to go. "Meanwhile, enjoy your
vacation."

"One thing. . . what’s going to happen to me?
I mean, I don't want to go back into uniform again."

Sloan pulled on his coat. "We’ll discuss it
later."

The next morning Mercanto forced himself out of bed.
In the mirror his swarthy looks were sallow, his eyes sunken and
bright, but he managed to shower and dress. Something in the night
made him decide not to give up on the case. As he tossed and turned,
replaying the shooting in his mind, he remembered what the captain
had said . . . The kid did not take his wallet. That meant he
panicked and ran, not exactly the killer who had coolly shot
Hightower and mutilated the body afterward . . .

He made coffee and sat down at the table. The bottle
of painkillers was in front of him, he thought about taking some but
didn't. The pain was less sharp. If it got worse he could take them
later. Right now he needed a clear head.

The window at Interiors was filled with a small sofa
and two end tables, the bases of which were china elephants. Looked
expensive.

Inside he was greeted by a man in his forties,
dressed in a crew neck sweater and chinos. Mercanto showed him his
badge and said that he was looking for John and Elizabeth Cohen. The
man led him to an office in the rear where a woman with a mane of
blonde hair was working at a drafting table.

"Now, what can we do for you?" the man
asked. The woman came over to join them. When he said he was
investigating the Hightower murder they looked real sad.

"We had dinner with him the night it happened,"
the man said. "At Lagniappe . . ." the woman added. "We
were so shocked to hear what had happened. Stanley was one of our
best friends. He and John have known each other for over twenty
years."

"That's why I’m here, I’m trying to
reconstruct what happened that night."

"We always had dinner once a week, sometimes
twice. Usually it would be the four of us . . . Dominique, when they
were married, and Cheryl Goldman, since the divorce," Elizabeth
said. "That night, for some reason, it was just three of us.
Lagniappe was Stanley’s idea. It was his favorite restaurant."

"Why just the three of you?"

"I guess that’s how he wanted it," John
said.

"What was his mood like?"

They looked at each other. Elizabeth said, "He
wasn't himself. You’d have to know Stanley to understand it. The
evening started okay. He was lively. We had a couple of bottles of
champagne, but I noticed there was an edge to him, like he was
forcing himself to have a good time. Almost manic. When the
conversation would let up a look would come over him like he was
ready to . . . to cry or something."

"What do you think was behind it?"

"I don't know. Once, when John was in the men's
room I asked what was wrong. He said nothing, but he squeezed my hand
and held it like he didn’t want to let go."

"Like she said, you had to know Stanley,"
added John. "That was unusual. He wasn't the type to start
touching."

"How had his mood been over, say, the last three
or four months?"

"Odd you should ask, because we talked about it
afterward. We'd both noticed a big mood change in him lately. He'd
been distant, sad, but he’d never confided in us why," John
said. "To be truthful, his mood started to change around the
time of the divorce," Elizabeth said. "When he said they
were splitting up, we were shocked. Oh, Dominique could be difficult,
but that was her way, and they had always seemed so happy together.
Then one day, out of the blue . . . After that he seemed like a kid
again, he was so happy. I told John he's got a girlfriend. Probably a
young one . . ."

"Cheryl Goldman, the girl from his office?"

"At first we thought so," Elizabeth said.
"The way he started bringing her to dinner almost immediately,
but then I decided not. It was the way he treated her, like a friend,
not a lover."

"Do you know who it was?"

"No. We teased him about it but he never said.
Then when his mood changed for the worse three or four months ago we
assumed it was over."

"Did he try for a reconciliation?"

John shook his head.

Mercanto’s chest was hurting with each breath. He
wished now that he'd taken the painkillers.

"Going through his papers we found he'd been
making large cash withdrawals from his checking account for the past
few months. They total almost fifty thousand dollars. Do you have any
idea what they might be for?"