Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (8 page)

"That was in the section of the park near the
zoo. We haven't had that problem up here," the captain said
quickly.

"There’s always a first time. . ."

Mercanto had to agree with him. Drugs were big
business, crossed all ethnic and social lines, and the Jamaicans had
been responsible for a number of recent murders, each more
sensational than the last.

"Well, that's what we have so far," Sloan
said. "We released Hightower’s death to the newspapers this
morning. There's no way we could keep it out. But we held back the
mutilation angle."

"Good, that's not the sort of thing we want the
public to hear about," the captain said.

Sloan turned to Mercanto. "The ball, like they
say, is in your court now. You think you can handle it?"

Mercanto just looked at him.

"Do you have any thoughts on it? Something we
might have missed. After all, you found the body," the captain
said. He looked at her, then at Sloan. "You left out one
possibility."

"What's that?" Sloan said.

"That it was a random killing, and we have a
psycho loose in the park."
 
 

CHAPTER 5

LORING WEATHERBY ignored the view from his corner
table at Moselle’s. Outside, students from Taft and Penn, bundled
against the chill in the best from Goldberg’s and Eddie Bauer,
bustled up and down the University City section of Walnut Street, but
he did not give them a second glance. He sat staring at the piece of
paper he was holding.

A waiter appeared, menu in hand, and stood in front
of his table. Loring looked up. “No, I'm waiting for someone,"
he said. As the waiter turned to go Loring stopped him. "On
second thought, would you bring a Bombay martini on the rocks with a
twist?"

The waiter nodded and for a moment Loring felt
compelled to explain himself. To say it was after two. That he wasn’t
going back to the office. That the stock market had already done all
the damage it could to him for one more day. He looked back at the
paper in his hand. On it was written the name Margaret Priest and two
phone numbers. Her office number and her home, the latter of which he
had gotten from the phone book, although it was listed as "M.
Priest." In one corner of the paper was written the word
"Margaret" three times. It didn't look like his
handwriting, but he knew he must have done it, doodling
absent-mindedly as he sometimes did.

A busboy filled two water glasses and brought bread.
As Loring watched him he could hear the words she had spoken to him
at the close of their first session . . . My given name is Margaret .
. ." Now she called him by his given name, too. At first she had
been reluctant, but when she saw that it was important to him she
gave in. Good . . .

He looked around and wondered what he was doing here.
The thought of another business lunch sent his stomach into a spasm
of pain. He breathed deeply and pressed his diaphragm down, willing
the pain to go away. Sometimes that helped. This time it didn't, but
it didn't frighten him either. The pain was only tension, the doctor
said. However, if he didn't do something for it he knew he would not
be able to eat. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a
small bottle with a medicine dropper. The label read: "Belladonna,
ten drops in water, three times per day." He never traveled
without it. Deadly nightshade, the only thing that would relieve the
pain, and later the only thing that would bring sleep. He reached for
his water and counted the drops of the brownish liquid, barely
stopping at twenty-five.

Good for what ails you, he thought, as he raised the
glass to his lips, tasting the familiar bitter metallic taste. Almost
instantly he felt his stomach begin to relax, and with it a sense of
peace began to return. A peace he knew would be short-lived, but one
which he was thankfully able to give himself five or six times a day,
sometimes more.
 
He picked up the
paper and looked at it again. To hear her voice would make things
better, and the warmth of the belladonna seemed to ease the way. "Why
not?" he said half-aloud, and pushed back his chair.

The phone was located in the hallway leading to the
restrooms. Loring picked up the receiver, deposited a coin and
dialed. As he heard the phone begin to ring at the other end, a man
entered the hallway and began to drop coins into the cigarette
machine beside the phone. Loring wanted to hang up. This was one call
he did not want anyone to overhear, but a voice answered before he
could.

It was her voice. In his annoyance he didn't catch
what she said, but he did hear her soft, sure tone.

The man beside him seemed to be having trouble with
the cigarette machine. Loring glanced at him out of the corner of his
eye . . .

He heard her voice again and wanted to say, "Hello,
Margaret, it’s me. I just called to say hello." Of course he
didn't, it would be too stupid. Instead he listened, silent, until
she hung up.

As he walked back to his table he thought of her . .
. the rustle of her clothes when she walked, her hair over her
shoulders, the blueness of her eyes, yes, and the way she held her
cigarette . . .

At his table he was startled to find his lunch date
had arrived.

He pushed his blond hair back on his forehead, took a
deep breath.

She stood up and held out her hand. "Hello, I’m
Erin Fraser. You’re Loring Weatherby."

"Yes, right." Her grip was strong, solid
yet feminine.

He sat down across from her, forcing himself to
smile. She was early, he was sure without looking at his watch. A
time slave, he thought with a sudden combination of anger and
weariness. Right now he needed to be alone for a few minutes. He
could feel his stomach beginning to tighten again. Why couldn't she
have been late?

"Is anything wrong?" he heard her ask.

Her words jerked him back to the present. He didn't
want her to see his displeasure . . . "I was just thinking how
times change. That you stood up when I approached the table. Usually
it’s the other way around. Or at least used to be."

As soon as he said it he knew it was all wrong.
Unnecessary. There was more than a hint of coldness in her reply. "I
open car doors and light cigarettes for men, too. Does that bother
you?"

"No . . . well, yes it does . . . sometimes,"
he said, unsure of the right answer. For him, this was the hardest
part of the investment business. Something he could do but didn't
like. Deal with the clients and potential clients face to face.
Except for a very few, namely the ones he hoped to go sailing with,
he almost never did it, choosing instead to let the profits he
generated speak for him.

"Why’s that?" she asked.

He answered truthfully. "Because then I don't
know how to treat you. It makes something simple like helping you on
with your coat or holding your chair seem like . . . well, taking
personal liberties with you."

"Sometimes it is," she said, "but it’s
an interesting question," she added, softening some.

He sat there trying to figure out how he could end
this lunch as quickly as possible, potential client or not. He was
already feeling the first touches of panic begin to return. The
belladonna wasn’t doing its job. What he needed was to go home and
shut the door on the world, the noise, the people, the aggravation .
. . He needed peace, time to think.

Erin shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said,
feeling the awkwardness of the moment. "I didn't mean to sound
strident. Something that happened this morning got to me. . ."

"I guess I'm sorry, too," he heard himself
say. "Let's start over. How about a drink and then you tell me
what happened."

"I'd like that."

When the waiter came and went, Loring sat quietly
looking at her. Erin Fraser was around thirty and very pretty. Her
dark hair was pulled back and tied, showing off the leanness of her
face; long bangs kept the style from being too severe. Her
tortoise-shell schoolboy glasses combined with her large round white
rhinestone earrings to give her a look of seriousness and
sophistication. She was wearing a white suit that was almost a pale
gray. The jacket was loose, padded shoulders and notched lapels.
Under the jacket was a navy pullover, and she wore a multi-colored
scarf looped around her neck and tied in front.

"You know I'm the curator for the upcoming
Caribbean exhibit at Taft University's Braddon Museum . . ."

"Yes, Wiladene told me," he said, a mental
picture coming to mind of the wife of Cornell Jenkins, star forward
for the Sixers and one of his best clients. Wiladene had set up the
lunch, telling him in the process about Erin and the large amount of
money she had recently inherited from her aunt that she wanted to
invest.

"Wiladene's a volunteer at the museum, along
with a thousand other charities," Erin said. "That's how we
became friends. This is a big exhibit, set to run for two years with
over five thousand items . . ." She stopped herself. "I’m
not really telling this very well. What I'm trying to say is that
there are a lot of people involved in this exhibit, but there are a
couple of Taft students, roommates who are like younger sisters to
me. This morning I found that one of them is having an affair with a
married man. A professor in his forties, a poet," she added with
a grimace.

"And you disapprove," said Loring, suddenly
wary. What was she trying to say, why tell him, a stranger, at lunch?

"Yes, I disapprove. I mean I’m as liberal as
the next person. Nothing wrong with sex. I believe people have to
learn about life and love and so forth. But all this man is going to
do is use her and toss her away. Not fair. She should learn from
someone her own age, that way she'll be less likely to get hurt."

"Sex is like that . . . hurtful, even tragic . .
." he heard himself say. God, he hadn't intended to say that.

Erin stared at him. "What an odd thing for a man
to say. Do you really think that?"

How could he answer her when he couldn't even begin
to answer himself. . . "Sorry," he said, "just
thinking aloud about a friend . . . tell me about being an
anthropologist"

The waiter came back with her drink and menus, but
Erin paid little attention. She was impressed by the way her story
had seemed to affect this man. He wasn't at all what she’d
expected. With a name like Loring Weatherby she had come braced for
Mr. Cool, probably pompous. He was neither. With his good looks he
could have fitted the stereotype . . .everything was there for it.
But his eyes gave him away. A softness there. A vulnerability?
Whatever, she felt like reaching across and touching his hand, to
reassure him. Strange role reversal going on . . .

"There's really not much to tell," she
said. "Shamanism is my specialty. I’ve studied it in Jamaica
and Haiti."

"Voodoo?" he said, glad for a change.
Something abstract to talk about.

"
Sort of, but most Caribbean religions are a
mixture of African religions with an overlay of Christianity,
especially Catholicism," she said, pleased with his interest.

Loring reached for his drink and noticed that he felt
no chill in his fingertips as he picked it up. This was something
that had been happening lately. The sensation of touch seemed
diminished, but of course he'd had problems with his hands ever since
that bicycle accident when he was twelve and had broken both
collarbones . . .

He set his glass down untasted and put his hand under
the table to flex his fingers a few times. It seemed to help. He
rubbed his fingertips along his trousers, trying to feel the texture
and scratch of the wool.

He picked up his drink, sipped but tasted none of the
familiar juniperberry taste of the gin, only a vague taste of alcohol
and lemon. He shook his head. The waiter must have brought him a
vodka martini by mistake.

He looked across at Erin, sitting quietly, looking at
him with a slight smile on her face. Between her thumb and forefinger
she was rolling the swizzle stick from her drink. Why was she doing
that? Her smile made him feel like he was under a microscope. He
looked at his watch. "I have to get back to the office soon, do
you mind if we order?"

"No, of course not," Erin said, puzzled at
his abrupt change. Was she boring him? He seemed a nice man, she
didn’t want that.

As they studied their menus his eyes automatically
went to the filet mignon with tarragon sauce. By nature he was a beef
eater and it was his favorite item on the menu. But today he passed
over it.

Since the episode in the fitting room he had found
himself unable to eat meat. In fact, every time he tried he became
violently sick. One of the many strange unexplained things happening
to him lately, and that he tried to write off to tension. After all,
with his stomach . . .

He scanned the menu for alternatives. For some reason
the descriptions of the food made no sense. He tried to visualize the
food, ingredient by ingredient, found it all too complex, the shapes,
the colors . . . Finally his eye stopped on something that did make
sense — potato and leek soup. That he felt he could eat.