Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (17 page)

"Probably still too scared," he said aloud,
thinking of the woman’s breasts as she leaned across the seat
toward him. "I should have played with them . . ." he
muttered. Then he heard another sound. A faint, rustling near him.
The wind's beginning to pick up, he thought. He felt the first drop
of rain. "Better get home," he said. "Wouldn’t want
to have to explain a bunch of wet clothes to mom."

He pushed the bicycle on, wishing it didn't make the
clicking sound it did. The rustling stopped, then started again. His
thoughts went back to the woman. Yes, he should at least have touched
her breasts. Tomorrow that’s what he would do with Traci after the
basketball game . . . make her sit there with her clothes open before
he’d give her any coke. She would do anything for a line or two.

A branch snapped nearby, like someone stepped on it?
He stopped, listened. He looked to where he thought the sound came
from but saw nothing except the outlines of the trees and brush, just
shadows in the faint moonlight.

More drops of rain hit him. He turned up his collar
to keep their stinging coldness from his neck. The path was near,
then a short distance to Wissahickon Avenue and the ride home, but
now something about the woods had changed. He cou1dn't tell what,
only that he felt uneasy, a light prickling along the back of his
neck.

He tried to dismiss it. For years he’d played in
these woods . . . but the feeling didn't go away. His hand went to
his waistband to check his gun. It was gone. He patted himself down
but it was no use, he’d dropped it somewhere along the way. He had
to find it.

Leaving his bicycle behind he started to retrace his
steps. A flashlight would make the job easier, he thought, but he
hoped the metal would gleam in the moonlight. He stepped carefully on
the carpet of dead leaves, trying not to move around and possibly
cover it up. He would not go home without it.

His concentration was so great that at first he
didn't hear the rustling when it started again. When he did it was
closer and slightly behind him, distinctly different now from the
wind in the trees or the falling rain. It was the sound of something
moving in the brush.

"Probably just a dog," he said aloud.
"Nothing to worry about He continued his search, but moving more
quickly. The shuffling noises continued with him, seemed closer now.
He didn’t actually think it, but he felt something new to him . . .
he was no longer the predator, pursuer. He was the intended victim,
the pursued.

He hated the feeling. Now he had to find that gun.
The noises were louder now. He could hear a grunting, animal —
noise with the shuffling. It had to be a dog. Sure. He picked up a
rock and threw it in the direction of the sounds. It bounced
harmlessly off the trees. He threw another, and heard the noises
retreat.

"Good," he said, "that'll show you."

He listened for a moment. The woods were quiet again
except for the wind in the trees and the rain falling harder. He was
almost back to Hortter Street. Only a couple hundred more yards. The
gun had to be here somewhere. Then by God he'd show that dog.

Almost at his elbow he heard a low growl. The dog had
not gone away, it had moved ahead of him in the woods. Jesus, what if
it was rabid . . . He looked around for another rock. As he bent to
pick one up he heard a snarl and was knocked flat by a heavy weight
on his back.

His face was buried in the wet leaves. He felt hot
breath on his neck, and tried to fight back, to get free. Over and
over they rolled, this crazy dog growling and snarling like no dog
he'd ever heard. In the faint light he caught a glimpse of feverish
eyes, lips pulled back from teeth. It was no dog that was attacking
him, it was a man. He tried to hit out with his fists but was
overpowered.

He managed to roll to his stomach, trying to protect
himself. As he did he raised his head. Just out of reach he saw the
gun in the leaves. He swung his elbows hard as he could, trying to
break free. No use. He tried to crawl, the man still on his back, his
legs almost around him.

Now pain sharper, more intense than anything he’d
ever felt as teeth ripped the side of his neck. He screamed a silent
scream, his face buried in the wet leaves. Warm blood began to cover
his neck and face from his torn carotid artery.

He barely raised his head again as he tried to reach
the gun. It was the last thing he saw before the clawlike fingers dug
into his eye sockets.
 
 

CHAPTER 13

AT STANLEY Hightower's office Cheryl Goldman and
Mercanto were again sitting opposite each other. There was a puzzled
look on Cheryl's face. "When I called your office to see if
there was any news about when Stanley’s body would be released I
was told you were no longer on the case."

Mercanto adjusted his coat to ease the pressure on
his rib. This time he’d brought the painkillers with him. If he
needed a couple he was going to take them.

"
That's right," he said. "I’m
officially on sick leave. I was shot the other night."

"Oh . . . I'm sorry. How did it happen?"

Even with the painkillers he was having trouble
sleeping. Every time he moved, the pain woke him, and the two
together were taking their toll on him.

He shrugged. "I got to thinking about the case
the night after I was there and drove out to the park where he was
killed. A kid held me up. When I tried to arrest him, he shot me."

"God, how awful . . . Do you think he might be
the one that killed Stanley?"

"It's a possibility . . . the place was the
same, and the gun was the same type . . . There are a few more
questions I'd like to ask you . . ."

"Fire away," she said, then she laughed.
"Sorry, that didn’t come out like I meant it."

Mercanto smiled. It eased the way for his
questioning.

"When we talked last time I didn’t mention
that we found drugs in Stanley's apartment. Can you tell me anything
about them?"

"Why no, of course not . . . Why is this
important anyway? It sounds like you know who did it and all you have
to do is catch him."

"Maybe," Mercanto said, "but I'm not
sold on the idea that this kid's the killer. Certain things were
different about the two incidents . . ."

"Like what?"

"I can’t go into that right now, but trust me,
if you knew you’d agree."

She looked skeptical. "The last time someone
said 'trust me' he . . . never mind."

"If it will make it any easier for you, I’ve
talked to John and Elizabeth Cohen. They’ve confirmed that for the
past few months he was using a large amount of drugs. Approximately
the same period as the withdrawals from his bank account, and his
depression."

She thought about it for a moment. Mercanto sat
waiting. Waiting was what a cop did most of the time.

Finally she said, "It's true, he was doing a lot
of drugs the past few months . . . I guess by our association it
means I was doing a lot, too."

He liked her honesty. He also liked the way she stood
by Hightower. Loyalty and honesty didn't come along much in his line
of work.

"That's not what I'm here for," he said.
"My job is to see his killer brought in. When I was talking with
the Cohens they mentioned that Stanley bought his drugs from
Jamaicans, but they didn't know who. Do you?"

She nodded. "His name was Rashid, that’s all I
know. I never saw him, but Stanley mentioned him a couple of times."

At least he had a name. That could account for the
call Elizabeth Cohen saw Stanley make from Lagniappe. With so much in
his apartment it wasn’t likely he was buying that night, but maybe
he was going to pay somebody off. Drug dealers didn't usually give
credit, but when you're talking about big withdrawals, a new set of
rules could apply.

"Where would they usually meet?"

"I don't know," she said. "All he ever
told me was the man's name . . . I can't help you any more than
that."

As he stood up to go he said, "Did he call you
between one-thirty and two the night he was killed?"

When he heard her say no he had to smile. Now he was
sure that call was made to the killer. . .

From Hightower's office he drove to a loft building
at Eighteenth and Callowhill. Stenciled on the heavy steel door was
the word "Dominique." He pressed the buzzer under the
intercom. After a moment a voice asked who it was. The intercom had
so much static he couldn't tell if the voice was male or female. He
identified himself, and the voice said, "Just a minute."

The minute stretched to five before the door opened.
Standing in front of him was a young man with a spiky two-toned
crewcut, blond and green.

"Sorry, I couldn't hear you too well upstairs."

Mercanto showed his badge. "I'm here to see Mrs.
Hightower."

The young man led him to a freight elevator that they
took to the third floor. The elevator opened into a large room that
took up the whole floor. People were working at cutting tables,
sewing machines or drawing boards. In the center of the room, on a
small platform, a man and a woman were fitting and pinning a dress to
a mannequin while a small dark-haired woman dressed in jeans and a
black turtleneck stood off to one side watching.

The man with the crewcut pointed. "That’s
her."

"Mrs. Hightower . . ."

She turned, eyes flashing. "My name is not
Hightower. It’s Bouquet . . . Dominique Bouquet," she said
with a heavy French accent.

He showed her his badge. "Sorry, I’ll remember
next time . . . is there somewhere we can talk?"

"Come with me."

He followed her to the elevator and the fourth floor.
Like the third it was also one large room, but it was broken up with
free-standing black-and-white partitions cordoning it off into
different sections. The one they were in was dominated by a large
sectional sofa in black suede with a gold standing lamp at each end.

"
Your living quarters?" he said, looking
around. She sat down on the sofa, tucking one leg under her. "Yes,"
she said.

"Now I know who decorated your husband’s
offices."

A look of interest crossed her face. "Ex-husband,"
she said. "How do you know that?"

He sat down beside her. As he sank into the cushions
he could feel the pain begin again in his chest, and he had to sit
forward.

"I've seen his apartment and his offices. This
looks more like his offices than his apartment. I like it better,"
he said.

"I take that as a compliment. Now what can I do
for you?"

"I’m investigating Mr. Hightower's murder. I
need to ask a few questions. Had you any regular contact with your
ex-husband since the divorce?"

She picked up a pack of cigarettes from the coffee
table and lit one. "I'm not sure what you mean . . . regular
contact. We spoke, yes. I told the other officers that when they made
me look at his body. We had drinks together once or twice, that's it.
I loved him very much. The divorce hurt me. It was better that I
forget him. Why do you ask?"

"Would you mind telling me why you were
divorced?"

"He fell out of love with me."

"Are you also saying that he fell in love with
someone else?" he asked, remembering his conversation with the
Cohens. Elizabeth had mentioned she thought he was involved with
someone else but didn't know who, that his good spirits ended and she
assumed the relationship was over.

"If you like," she said. Mercanto looked at
her closely. She was very pretty.

"Who was it?"

"I don’t know . . . he wouldn’t say . . .
This has been hard for me. After a divorce a woman still feels things
. . . you wouldn’t understand."

"Try me."

"She wonders if maybe it was her fault. What did
she do that was wrong, then to see him like that . . . dead, and hurt
like that . . ." She shook her head.

Mercanto said, "Right now we’re trying to find
a man named Rashid. . ."

She raised her eyebrows. "So you think it had
something to do with drugs?"

"It's possible. We found a large amount in his
apartment and for the last few months he’d been taking a lot of
money out of his checking account."

She drew on her cigarette. "Stanley liked many
things . . .wine, cocaine, sex. He was a hedonist, but not to the
excess you’re thinking. I do not say he couldn’t have been killed
by someone involved in drugs, but I know him, he did not spend the
money on drugs."

` She seemed so sure. "What then?"

"He was a generous man. He put the girl in his
office through school. He set up my business. Perhaps he just gave it
to someone . . ."

"What about Rashid? What can you tell me about
him?"

"He is a Jamaican, that’s all I know. I never
met him, only heard Stanley speak of him."

"Do you know where I can find him?"

"All I know is somewhere on Germantown Avenue."