Big Goodbye, The (16 page)

“Get your goddamn hands in your pockets,” he yelled at a plainclothes detective. “I don’t want you touchin’ anything.”

Henry Folsom was a large man. Everything about him was thick. He was tall and middle-aged, but muscular—only some of which was beginning to turn to fat. As usual, he was wearing his trench coat and fedora inside.

He was standing at the top of the stairs watching as the initial pictures were being taken.

“Jimmy,” he said. “How you been?”

He had been my boss at one time. He was a decent man, a tough and honest cop.

“Not bad—unless it’s . . . How am I about to be?”

“Not good,” he said, shaking his head and frowning, then spoke to Ray.

Ray nodded, but didn’t say anything.

Distance. Numbness. Shock. Everything around me receded—further and further until a great distance away—and I could feel nearly nothing. Neither Ray nor I could say much of anything or show any emotion in front of Henry and his men—which wouldn’t be a problem for me. I was having a hard enough time just breathing.

We waited in silence for a moment after the pictures were completed for measurements to be taken, drawings to be done—all the while Henry taking down notes on a small pad he pulled out of his jacket pocket.

Though I couldn’t see the body from where we stood, most of the activity was taking place in my office.

“Is she in there?” I asked.

Henry nodded very slowly as he continued to scribble onto a pad.

The drawers of July’s desk and the filing cabinet behind it were open, manila file folders and papers littering the desktop and floor. I squatted down and peered beneath the desk, praying July’s purse wouldn’t be in its usual spot. It was.

“Is it there?” Ray asked. “I couldn’t bring myself to look.”

I nodded, and as I stood, all the blood seemed to drain from my head, and I wobbled slightly until Ray grabbed my arm and steadied me.

“Who found her?” I asked.

Butch had yet to make an appearance, and Pete, though still present, remained silent. There was tension between us, sure, but I suspected he was hoping the way he and Butch had treated me and what Butch had done to Ray wouldn’t come up in front of Folsom—which meant he didn’t know anything about it.

“Potential client came in this morning looking for Ray,” Henry said.

Ray let out an ironic and bitter burst of laughter, and I knew what he was thinking. Who would hire the services of an agency that couldn’t even keep one of its own safe?

“The door was unlocked?” I asked.

“Just as if you were open for business,” he said.

Ray was pale, the pain chiseled on his face in deep furrows. He said, “Jimmy and I were out working cases. I tried to call her a couple of times this morning, but never got an answer. We worked pretty late last night. I figured she’d come in later.”

“And the last time either of you saw her alive was . . .”

“Late last night,” I said. “We were working a case until—”

“I’ll need you to tell me that one in detail.”

I did—well, most of the details anyway, grateful to have something to concentrate on.

Unlike July’s work area, nothing in my office had been disturbed. Everything was just as I had left it—stacks of books scattered throughout the room amidst dusty framed photographs on the floor, chess set, phonograph with records—only now July’s body was seated in my chair, her pretty face bruised and bloody, her lifeless eyes staring out at nothing.

“Why put her in here?” Henry asked. “Why in Jimmy’s chair?”

I didn’t say anything.

“It’s obviously a message,” Ray said.

“To me?”

“Maybe, but probably to both of us. Two offices, one body. Just happened to pick yours.”

“Then why not put her in her own chair? Be more shocking to walk in and see her first thing. And he had to think one of us would be the first to see her.”

Ray nodded.

“We thinking revenge from a spouse who was on the wrong side of one of your lenses?” Henry asked.

“Or a warning from someone we’ve yet to expose,” I said.

“The first’s a pretty long list,” Ray said. “The second one’s not.”

“Speaking of which,” Henry said. “Guess which Chester made bail this morning?”

“
Stanley Somerset
?” Ray and I asked simultaneously.

“Uh huh,” he said. “What I hear, you guys robbed him of his one chance at true love.”

This wasn’t the work of Stanley Somerset. It was too close to the MO of the guy who did Freddy, Margie, and Cab, but it wouldn’t hurt any to let Henry think it could be. Let him look for Stanley while we found the dead man who did this to July.

“Ah, Detective,” the coroner said from somewhere behind us.

We turned toward him.

“The guy you’re talking about couldn’t have done this,” he said.

Henry shot us an amused look. “Oh yeah?” he said. “Why’s that?”

“Because,” the tech said, “this young lady was killed some time last night.”

Chapter 35

“Why the hell did she go back to the office so late?” Ray asked.

I didn’t have an answer, so I asked a question of my own. “Do you think she was followed from the park?”

“Almost had to have been,” he said. “How would anyone else even know where she was?”

I nodded.

“She was mad at me when she left,” I said.

“Got nothing to do with this,” he said. “Don’t even start down that road.”

I had thought once we were away from the other men, we might grieve—at least a little, but as in all things I deferred to Ray, followed his lead.

We had walked down the stairs, past the cops, headed down Harrison, and were now beneath the large vertical THEATER sign of the Ritz.

“You know
we’ve
got to be the ones to catch him,” he said. “Our own secretary in our own building.”

“I wanna do more than catch him,” I said.

He nodded, then abruptly stopped walking.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I guess I was just getting away from it.”

All around us, people were lined up along the sidewalks, straining to see what the police were up to. Standing in small groups, the crowd composed mostly of women, they whispered to each other in hushed, but excited voices.

“I’ve got to be in court in a few minutes,” he said. “When I get a break, I’ll track down Rainer.”

I nodded.

“What about you?”

“Think I’ll pay another visit to the Lewises,” I said. “I’ll be shocked if this isn’t connected to them somehow.”

“Where’s your wife?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” Harry said. “She’s not here.”

I pushed past him without being invited, stepping into Lauren’s other world, the one I had always been excluded from.

“Where is she?”

“I honestly don’t know,” he said. “I came home for lunch and she was gone.”

“What the hell is going on?” I said.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said.

“No need to be afraid,” I said. “Ask all you like, but I’m not going anywhere until I start getting some goddamn answers. People are dying all around us—at least one that I really cared about. So no more lies, no more denials, no more time to be polite.”

As I had suspected, Harry had provided a plush prison for his child bride. Their mansion was filled with the finest furniture and the most exquisite accessories a banker’s money could buy. It made me simultaneously sick and angry, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to vomit or bust the place up.

“What people?” he asked. “Who’s dying?”

“Our secretary for one,” I said. “Girl named July.”

“And you think that has something to do with me or my wife?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Just like the deaths of Freddy Moats, Margie Lehane, and a gunsel named Cab.”

“Sir, I assure you I don’t know any of those people, except Margie vaguely, of course, and wouldn’t have any idea why they were killed.”

“Probably has something to do with why you dropped out of the race,” I said.

“I haven’t dropped out yet,” he said. “I may not.”

“Why are you even considering it?”

“It’s a very personal matter,” he said. “Extremely private.”

I shook my head. “Not anymore.”

“I really don’t think you—”

I drove my left fist into his soft, old man’s belly. He doubled over, gasping for breath. I had dreamed of doing that and more to him for a long time, but it was no good. There was no pleasure in it.

It took a moment, but he stood upright again.

“You’re gonna beat up a helpless old man?”

“That and a lot worse if I have to,” I said. “Somebody came into our office and killed our secretary—propped her up in my chair, put her on display—a girl who was doing what she could to protect you and your wife. Now tell me what the fuck’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I swear.”

I hit him again, another shot to his gut. I didn’t want to really hurt him if I didn’t have to, didn’t want to mark up his face or do any damage anywhere that could be seen—not that I could do much damage with my left anyway.

He doubled over again, but this time he didn’t stop. Dropping to his knees, he grabbed his stomach and tried to get some air.

“Why’re you dropping out of the race?” I asked.

It took him a moment, but eventually he managed a weak, “For Lauren.”

“Why?”

“She wouldn’t tell me,” he said.

I waited, letting him take in some more air.

“A man calling himself Eisler told me that if I didn’t drop out of the race he’d go public with information and evidence about my wife that would not only disgrace and humiliate both of us, but would ensure I’d lose anyway.”

“And you just took his word for it?”

“Of course not,” he said. “I asked Lauren if there was anything to it, and she said there could be. She told me she might be able to make it all go away, to give her a few days. So I did.”

“Which is when all the bodies began dropping.”

“Lauren wouldn’t—”

“Any idea what this Eisler has on her?”

He shook his head. “Mr. Riley, my wife and I are—well, our relationship is . . . not typical. I can’t imagine what he’s got, but it must go way beyond simple infidelity.”

“When has infidelity ever been simple?” I said.

“That’s all I know,” he said, “except for one other thing—and I know it for sure. Lauren may be guilty of various indiscretions, but she is not mixed up in murder.”

“You don’t even know what’s going on,” I said. “How can you be sure she’s not behind the murders?”

“Because I know Lauren,” he said, “and if you knew her, you’d be just as certain. Besides, didn’t someone tell me that all the recent victims you mentioned had been beaten to death? Surely, you can’t think any woman capable of that.”

“Of course not,” I said. “People like you and your wife never do your own dirty work, but in my book, the one who gives the order is just as guilty as the one who pulls the trigger. Maybe more so.”

Chapter 36

“You’re
Jimmy?” Father Keller asked.

“Yeah.”

We were standing outside his church on Harrison Avenue. He had been sweeping the front steps when I arrived. The church was empty and silent—inside and out, mine the only car in the lot.

He nodded to himself and examined me closely.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“
Something
,” I said.

“I’m sorry. It’s just nice to finally meet—you were at Wakulla Springs.”

I nodded. “I take it Lauren mentioned me to you.”

“
Mentioned
?” he said. “You’re all she talks about.”

I narrowed my eyes in a look of disbelief.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Come inside.”

We entered the creaking old church, lit only by candlelight, the flickering shadows from hundreds of votive candles dancing on the walls like the disembodied worshipers of a far more primitive religion.

Walking down the center aisle of the dimly lit sanctuary, I nearly tripped over him when he stopped abruptly to genuflect.

I had believed we were headed to his office, but when he got up, he continued to the front pew and took a seat.

Sitting down next to him, I said, “Tell me about your relationship with Lauren.”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“She’s missing again,” I said.

His eyes widened in what seemed to be genuine surprise. “She is?”

“Looks like it,” I said.

Lewis had discovered that Lauren’s suitcase and some of her clothes were missing, and he and I had checked everywhere we could think of throughout most of the afternoon, but had not been able to find her.

“You have no idea where she is?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I was hoping you might help me with that.”

He frowned. “Wish I could.”

“You can start by telling me about your relationship,” I said. “You can’t be her priest. She’s not Catholic. She’s not even religious.”

“No, she isn’t—well, not exactly, but in a weird way I am her priest . . . or at least becoming her priest.”

“And you two aren’t involved?” I asked.

“Of course we are. We’re—”

“I mean intimately.”

“
Sexually
?” he asked with a laugh. “No. We’re both celibate.”

I laughed at that.

“It’s true.”

“Listen, ah, Father, I’m not here to do you any harm with your church,” I said. “I wouldn’t know who to report you to and I have no interest in that. So you broke your vows. It’s understandable. Lauren’s a beautiful, highly desirable woman—”

“I never—”

“I’ve got to find her,” I said. “And the fact that you’ve got that collar on won’t stop me from doing whatever I have to, so don’t lie to me. I don’t care what you did or why, but you’ve got to level with me.”

“I am,” he said. “I was her counselor. I swear before God at this alter. That’s all. Her counselor. Nothing more.”

“And the hotel room at Wakulla Springs?”

“To ensure privacy,” he said. “Which obviously didn’t work.”

I stared at him, considering whether he was telling the truth.

“If you think I love her,” he said, “you’re right. If you think I’m attracted to her, you’re right, but if you think we’ve ever done anything inappropriate, you’re dead wrong.”