A Cruel Season for Dying (38 page)

“Does your killer use drugs?” the comic asked.

“You may infer what you wish from my questions, Mr. Shelton.”

Shelton laughed, and for a moment the emotion seemed genuine. “I have in the past experimented in the usual controlled substances”
was how he answered the question.

“Usual?”

He shrugged. “Pot. Designer shit … ecstasy.”

“Cocaine?”

“Didn’t like the stuff.”

“LSD?”

He made a face. “A few times. But I gave it up.”

“Why?”

“Bad trip … saw snakes everywhere. What do you think that means?”

He stared at the man. “I think, Mr. Shelton, that it means you’re bullshitting me. Why are you doing this interview?”

The comic turned to Kessler. “Give them to him.” His tone had turned bored.

The attorney opened her briefcase and took out several documents, which she passed across the desk. Now Sakura understood
that Kessler’s sour attitude was in part disgust with her client. She was a small-to-medium cog in a very large law firm.

“Those are affidavits,” Kessler spoke, “from club owners in Dallas and Phoenix. They verify that Mr. Shelton was in their
establishments performing when two of the murders took place.”

“Thank you,” he said to the lawyer.

“What I’m still unclear about”—he had turned back to Shelton—“is the progression in your activities. First, with the Davis
girl, you look. Then in the park, you expose yourself. It’s been some time since you were arrested for that. What’s been happening
since, Mr. Shelton? You
say
you never touch …?”

It was purely a parting shot, but for the first time the comic’s mobile features closed down, the spattering of freckles frozen
in the Silly Putty face. For what seemed like a long time, he stared at him, apparently weighing the cost of what he wanted
to say, the satisfaction relative to the risk.

“These clubs I work,” Shelton said finally, the grin turned nasty, “a lot of them are on the Coast. Mexico is just a few hours
away. There they don’t care if you handle the merchandise. And whatever you want, whoever you want, you can buy.”

“What are these?” Willie glanced up from the papers Sakura had placed on her desk.

“Shelton’s alibi,” he said, pulling over a chair. “According to these, he was out of town when Carrera and Westlake were killed.
If these are genuine—and Ms. Kessler’s law firm has a reputation to protect— then that leaves Shelton out.”

“The man is a total waste of human protoplasm,” she said. “I wish it
was
him.”

“It’s not Paladino either,” he said. “He did have a flat in the rain. But part of the reason he was so late getting to the
dealership was that he
had a passenger in the car at the time. He had to run her home first before he went to work.”

“And this lady was …?”

“His sales manager’s wife. But we’re keeping that confidential.”

“My God, the man does seem to get around.”

Sakura nodded. “His story about the neighborhood bar is also solid. He was there for the critical hours.”

“What about Graff?” she asked him.

“Still holed up with his lawyer. They’ve sent over a list of parishioners that Graff visited on a couple of the dates in question,
but the murders happened late. He’d have had plenty of time.”

“And Saturday?”

“Claims he was in his darkroom when Lucia would have been abducted. But he has no witnesses. Nor for later that night when
he claims he went for a jog and took in a movie.”

“Mrs. Tuminello …?”

“Can’t confirm whether Father Graff was in the rectory while she was there. She claims she never saw him before she left that
afternoon.”

“So the bottom line is,” she said, “that Graff has no viable alibis.”

“Right.”

“Have we gotten any explanation for those photographs?”

“No. The lawyer won’t comment on that.”

“Can we get Graff in for further questioning?”

He shrugged. “The Church isn’t refusing outright, but they’re saying that Walsh needs more time with him.”

“Stalling,” she said. Then, “What’s McCauley think of all this?”

“Glad to have a suspect. Unhappy with the politics.”

“And it’s all bound to leak.”

His face hardened. “We’ve been lucky so far with Shelton,” he said, “but somebody’s probably picked up on his being questioned
today. Now at least we can have a prepared statement that he’s been excluded as a suspect. It won’t be so simple if the net
gets tighter around Graff.”

She nodded.

Since the discovery of the bodies in St. Sebastian, the story had gone national, with coverage on all the cable news channels.
He’d seen the
Kahn woman on a FOX News show last night, and he could only imagine the impact when they finally had to confirm that the prime
suspect was a priest.

“What’s your feeling about Graff now?” he asked.

“I still have doubts about those photographs,” she began, “and Lucia makes his guilt even more problematic. If Graff needed
to eliminate Kellog because the pastor knew something damaging, then why select a little girl as the supposed victim? Why
not another gay man? It doesn’t make sense, Jimmy, because you know, as well as I do, that serials don’t behave like that.
Oh, they might change something in their MO to throw us off the track, but never something vital to the fantasy.”

“The homosexuality of the victims seems critical,” he said.

“I certainly thought it was. I don’t know what to think now. Lucia had to be the primary victim that night. I mean, look at
the trouble he went to, hanging her up there. That whole angel tableau, that’s his fantasy coming out. I just can’t imagine
how Lucia could fit with the first five victims.”

He’d picked up on her equivocation. “All right,” he said, “if we can’t say
why
Graff might have killed Lucia, maybe we better stick to something more practical.”

“Like
where
he killed her?”

He nodded. “Dr. Linsky says she was dead before the killer strung her up, and St. Sebastian was open for most of Saturday.
So did he keep her in the rectory? Kill her there? It’s a huge old building, and outside of the church itself, we haven’t
searched much more than his rooms.”

“So the next step …?”

“Take apart that rectory, top to bottom.”

“Can you get a judge to extend the warrant on what you have now?” she asked him.

For the first time he smiled. “Let’s find out.”

Between the peak hours of breakfast and lunchtime, traffic in the café slowed. Detective Walter Talbot was one of less than
a half-dozen customers. The waitress who brought his order had a name tag above
the pocket of her uniform. It said
TIFFANY
in thin white letters on plastic sky blue. A tall, pretty blonde, who looked like she could stand to eat more of whatever
the place offered. She smiled as she set the cup and the little pot of cream on the table. The gesture was midwestern expansive,
uncorrupted as yet by a city that seemed to compact everything down.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling up at her. “Could we talk?”

Her expression turned wary, appraising him, wondering no doubt if this was going to be a come-on. And whether or not she should
mind.

“Talk about what?” she asked him.

“I was wondering how long you’ve been working here.”

“Six months”—she shrugged to indicate it was approximate— “since I got to New York…. I’m trying to break into modeling.” She’d
tacked on the last, watching for his reaction. He imagined she told this to everyone.

“A man was murdered there.” He nodded toward Westlake’s building.

She stared past him through the window. “He used to come in here sometimes,” she said. “Geoffrey. He was a model too. A really
nice guy.”

“So you knew him?”

“Not exactly,” she answered slowly, embarrassed to have been called on it. “I waited on him a few times.”

“Were you here the day they found him?”

“I saw them bring him out in the body bag,” she said, still staring through the glass. “It was just like on TV. And then people
started coming in and saying it was Geoffrey. I couldn’t believe it.”

“What people?”

“What?” She had turned back to look at him.

“You said some people came in …?”

She studied him critically. “You a cop?”

“Yes.” He turned up the wattage on his smile. “We’re doing a little recanvassing.”

“I was gone by the time the police came round that day to question everybody,” she said. “God, I felt bad, like somebody should’ve
been hauling
me
out on a stretcher.” She flashed another look at him, wondering if she’d been too irreverent. “I was out for days with the
flu.”

“These people,” he reminded her, “the ones who were talking about Geoffrey …?”

“Regulars,” she answered, “people from the neighborhood.” She glanced back at the building. “Some of them live there.”

“I’m looking for a tall, thin man … wears a baseball cap and some kind of big outdoor parka,” he said. “You ever see anyone
like that with Geoffrey?”

“No.” She shook her head, but her attention seemed to sharpen. “… Not
with
Geoffrey.”

“But you’ve seen him?”

“I’ve waited on him,” she said. Then, “… He killed Geoffrey?” She had figured where all this was going.

He didn’t answer.

“He was in here that morning,” she said as if to prompt him, “that day they found the body.”

“You know his name?”

“No … sorry.” She looked truly pained. “He never talked much. Just drank a lot of coffee.”

“Can you describe him?”

“His hair was blond … I think.” She scrunched up her face, considering. “He always had on that cap. But yeah, I’d say blond.”

“Eyes?”

She shook her head. “He wore sunglasses … always.”

The detail of the glasses was significant, tallying as it did with the bartender’s composite. And the blond hair. Thomas Graff
had blond hair. “Age?” he asked her.

She frowned. “That’s hard these days.”

“Guess.”

“Thirty-five, maybe older. But good-looking, what you could see of his face. And built too, but not in an obvious way. He
didn’t always wear the parka.”

He smiled again, encouraging her.

“That’s all,” she said. “I guess I can’t really tell you much.”

“You did great, Tiffany. Have you seen him lately?”

“No. But you can ask the other girls. They might remember him.”

“I’ll talk to them,” he said, “but first I’d like to know if you’d be willing to come in for a lineup.”

“Like on the cop shows? One-way window and all?”

“That’s right,” he said. “You can see them. They can’t see you.”

“Sure,” she said, sounding pleased with the drama of the prospect. “I want to help if I can.”

Zoe watched as Connie Venza backed out of the carport onto the street and drove away. She checked her rearview mirror, examining
her hair, smoothing an unruly wisp into the tight French twist at the back of her head. Then she clipped on the small button
earrings that matched the single strand of pearls circling her neck above the thin gold chain bearing a small crucifix. She
fished out a pot of clear gloss and coated her lips. Her white silk blouse and navy wool suit were matron-simple. Along with
the sensible leather pumps.