Deadly Night (6 page)

She frowned and looked beyond me to the soda counter, and shook her head ‘no’.

“
Not yet,” she confessed. “The hair would normally point to a white guy, but he might be Asian. He likes to dress in dark clothing secured by straps…like some modern day ninja—that’s how he sees himself.”

She grabbed her left wrist with her right hand to illustrate her point, and I could almost sense the strength, determination, and worse—the killer’s cunning discipline in carrying out his debauched brutality.

“
His face is covered with a mesh mask that allows him to breathe and see through it clearly, but won’t allow anyone to discern his facial features,” she added.

“
Like that silly ‘Death’ Halloween get-up you made me wear at Cynthia’s party last October?”

I was only half-kidding—both in the seriousness of what we were dealing with and how I hated any masquerade unless attending a KISS costume party. Again, just the way I roll.
Rock
n’ roll, that is.

“
Yeah…I guess it is, sort of,” she agreed.

But the look on her face said she had either caught a glimpse of my hidden contempt in word or picture, or that she literally heard my unfiltered thought. Pick your poison. Either option not good, it could be days, weeks, or even months before she’d share what just now happened—long after I’d forgotten the incident and helpless to defend any of it.

I should’ve stopped there, but then I asked her about the office’s condition and a semi-vague question about blood spatter and where Dickey was found—all based on what Freddie told me. Bad move again, and probably another instance of her knowing more about my hidden agenda than I did.

She went for a direct hit. Suffice it to say his office looked even more like a gore fest than Johnny and Brenda’s place had the night before. The floor, walls, and furniture were covered in a collage of crimson and various organ, muscle, and vascular bits thrown in for good measure. Very few surfaces in the room were spared a splattered portion of Mr. Rollins.

I’m sure she hated telling me this, but her eyes bore a glint of satisfaction too. Nothing like a punch to the gut to get your horror-loving husband to back off and find something much more pleasant to talk about Nausea kept me from finishing the rest of my cherished Irish ale….

“
So, you decided to come after all!”

We had just pulled into Tom’s carport that evening, and Jackie ran over to Fiona and threw her arms around her before my wife could close the Camaro’s passenger door.

“
I’m so sorry about what happened to Dickey,” she said, her expression pained. She hugged Fiona even tighter. “Well…let’s see if we can cheer you up. Just wait until you see Tom’s new studio!”

Jackie glanced back at Angie, standing near the back door, at the edge of Tom’s covered carport.

“
It’s really bad-ass!” Angie enthused, grinning wryly as she stepped over to my wife and Jackie, offering her own warm hug to Fiona and a soft kiss on her forehead. “And he showed us some of the infrared pictures from last night—you’ll be quite surprised!”

Dressed in jeans and near-identical tie-dye tshirts, their hair was pulled back in ponytails not unlike the one I wore. Ready to do some more investigating later tonight, or maybe hit a club or two? My only concern was for Fiona, since she’d expressed a desire to get home at a decent hour, and Jackie or Angie would be her ride home tonight. I’d get home much later, since I had rehearsal with my bandmates after tonight’s review of the evidence we gathered last night from Charlain Thompson’s place.

“
Is everyone ready to eat yet?” Tom peered over the backyard’s wooden fence, a beer bottle in one hand and a spatula in the other. The aroma of roasted hot dogs and hamburgers wafted toward us, stronger now than earlier. “Hey, Jimmy…Fiona. I can’t remember if you like your burgers well done or with a little pink in them.”

“
Either way is fine,” said Fiona, usually agreeable unless a burger bore burnt edges.

“
Nothing that looks like shoe leather,” I said, not so agreeable when it comes to the version of roasted cow I prefer.

“
Did you remember Fiona’s dessert pizza?” he asked, nudging his glasses toward the bridge of his nose with his grilling mitt. “You can’t enter the back yard without it!”

Despite the glare from several tiki torches reflecting off his wired lenses, I caught a glint of amusement, his eyes twinkling for a nanosecond.

“
I almost forgot,” I said, nudging Fiona to go on without me while I went back to the car for our contribution to tonight’s grill potluck.

A recipe of my mom’s, the pizza is a concoction of fresh strawberries, blueberries, peaches, kiwi, and banana slices laid out on a pastry crust and covered with a light cream-cheese icing. I have to say it’s a hell of lot better tasting than it may sound, and something easy to put together on short notice. Perfect for tonight’s get together after Tom called this afternoon with the news he’d finished developing the video and still-frame shots from last night’s investigation.

“
Umm that looks really yummy!” said Angie, once I rejoined the females gathered just inside the back gate.

She’d never had the pleasure of sampling the dessert dish before. Fiona hadn’t made it since last summer. If not for Tom asking for it today, we probably would’ve picked up a pecan pie from Kroger on the way.

“
It tastes awesome!” I told her, sliding by on my way to a long redwood picnic table. Yeah, I guess I’m a little proud of Mom and Fiona’s party delicacy. “The only thing sounding better than this right now is an ice cold brew!”

“
Think fast, Rock Star!”

I turned just in time to catch a Miller Lite can flying through the air toward me, while Tom and the girls held their collective breath. Justin high-fived Tony, so I knew one of them threw it. I think if I’d failed to catch the damned thing, Tom would’ve had a massive coronary on the spot.

“
Do you mind acting a little
older
than high school, you two!” he scolded them, his normally deep voice carrying a shrill edge. “I doubt either of you make enough in a month to pay for a window if that had ricocheted through Jimmy’s grasp!”

He pointed to the ornate stained glass panels on either side of the backdoor, while both Tony and Justin shrugged and quietly mouthed ‘sorry’. Such feigned remorse, though they both had an ‘oops’ look on their faces. They turned their attention to the cooler, reaching in to grab a pair of longnecks.

I can see why he’s protective of his place. The property reminds me of a park setting, with lots of trees and such. And the house…it’s really nice. Built in the late 1920s, it looks like the Craftsman homes you sometimes see in movies, with lots of handcrafted oak paneling and millwork throughout. Frigging beautiful work, man. Of course, as my wife points out, it’s why they call this type of home a ‘Craftsman’ in the first place. Named after some home builder magazine from yesteryear.

“
What? Better not be any Heinekens in there,” I said, feigning irritation. “Hording the good stuff is so unacceptable, you guys!”

I hoped it’d take the edge off the morgue-feel suddenly permeating the air around us, since I could tell Tom was still fuming a bit. I’m not one for dull parties, and I definitely can’t tolerate a sour-puss gathering. The hell with that shit, I’d be just as happy getting an early start on rehearsal before the wounded puppies and Foghorn Leghorn turned tonight’s paranormal review into a pissing contest.

“
Hell, I’ll take a Heiney if there’s some in there,” said Angie, sauntering over to where the guys stood guarding their treasure chest.

Like a pair of tin soldiers from Candy Land, they stepped aside to make way for her, so obviously intimidated by the pretty girl’s moxy. Sure enough, once she fully opened the cooler’s lid, a dozen green bottles peered out through crushed ice. She grabbed a handful and began her strut to the picnic table.

“
Throw me that can of cow pee and I’ll bring you a real beer, Cracker Jack,” she taunted, playful, to which I immediately tossed the can without thinking first.

More gasps—this time from nearly everyone including me. But Angie smiled naughtily, balancing the bottles between one arm and her bosom while she effortlessly caught the can and flipped it back toward the open cooler. The can careened off the lid and into the ice. No harm, no foul—unless Tom’s labored breathing counts for anything.

While the rest of us marveled at Angie’s party trick, she moved over to the table. Tom hurriedly motioned for Tony to help him carry a platter filled with burgers and weenies to the table. Justin picked up the condiments from a small table next to the built-in grill on Tom’s deck, while Jackie grabbed a bowl of potato salad to go along with another one filled to the brim with baked beans.

That left Fiona, who paused by the cooler until she fished out a bottled Coke, since a sinus headache’s onset was upon her. She joined me near the end of the table, and everyone else found an open spot. Jackie and Tom joined us on the side closest to the grill, while Tony and Justin hesitated for a moment on the other side, as if silently debating between them who’d get the frightful pleasure of sitting next to Angie. Justin won the honor, as Tony found an excuse to revisit the grill.

“
So, where’d you learn the over-the-shoulder bank shot, Muscle Mutt?”

Hoping to further lighten the mood, I voiced the first thought that popped in my head. Angie really hates my pet name for her, since it brings to mind some muscle-bound body builder—which she’s not. ‘Body sculpting’ is the way she likes to refer to it, and recently Fiona and Jackie have been letting her teach them the basic initial exercises to help firm their thighs and legs, though I can’t really see where Fiona needs the help. Maybe she’s just trying to help Jackie not feel like the ugly duckling in our group. But Jackie’s not bad looking at all. The way the other guys’ eyes linger on her from time to time tells me they’d readily second that notion.

“
I grew up with three brothers—all older than me,” she replied, pausing to pass the potato salad to Justin, who then handed off to Tony at the table’s end. “The oldest was all-city basketball in Hartford, and my other brothers lettered in high school. So, along the way, I guess they showed me a thing or two on how to shoot deceptively, since I’m the ‘shorty’ in my family.”

They must be frigging giants. Hell, Angie stands at least an inch taller than Fiona, who is considered pretty tall at five-nine. Since she grew up in Connecticut, Angie’s the second friend of Fiona from the east coast. Candi was the first, hailing from Trenton, New Jersey.

“
You must be pretty good, then,” said Jackie, nodding approvingly. “And here I thought your favorite sport was Taekwondo.”

“
It is, although Taekwondo is more a philosophy and way of life for me, and not really a sport. Tennis is a sport.”

She glanced at me, as if this was some private joke…some secret dig brought on by my recent taunt? Maybe it goes along with her favorite moniker for me, ‘Cracker Jack’. I have no idea at all as to why she chose it. I mean, a smiling cartoon sailor on a box of sweetened pop corn with a cheap, meaningless toy in every box…. Okay, maybe it ain’t so vague, since who in the hell wants to be compared to
that?

“
This is excellent!” Fiona enthused, pointing to her burger. “Really
good
, Tom!

Everyone else chimed in, and I have to say the burger and hotdog I ate seemed unusually good. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, as my appetite at lunch was obliterated by the details surrounding Dickey Rollins’ exit from this world.

By the time eight o’clock rolled around, everyone had indulged in seconds and a generous slice from the dessert pizza. Fading sunlight peered through mature maples surrounding Tom’s property, creating an almost exotic feel, enhanced by the burning torches encircling the deck. Thirty minutes left before I needed to leave, rehearsal was set to start at nine o’clock sharp.

An emphatic tap on my watch got everyone moving, and we cleared the table in a matter of minutes. The dishwasher in Tom’s custom kitchen whirring in the background, he motioned for us all to follow him back outside.

Across the yard sat a revitalized small stone and log structure, built not long after the main house was erected. The ‘NVP studio’, as Tom called it. Fresh blue paint upon the door and window frames, the building seemed to glow under the backyard’s security lamps, nestled beneath tall pines and maples that were probably small saplings when it was built.

Like a little playhouse from some urban fantasy, the studio seemed to beckon us. Ready for its first ‘official’ test drive, perhaps?

I could hardly wait to put it in gear.

“
You should all watch your step, since the sidewalk has a few ridges that have popped up due to the ground shifting over the years,” Tom advised, as we neared the end of the cement path to his studio. Additional security lights set up in a pair of tall maples turned on just before we reached the building.

A crude miniature version of the main house, the three-room structure contained smaller stained-glass windows on each side of the doorway. Definitely not designed with a broken-down riding mower and rusted handsaws in mind—which is what Tom said it sheltered when he first visited the property. The floor had rotted through in several places, too, and the roof hung low in one corner. But that’s no longer the case. Everything old and busted had been replaced with brand new materials, starting with a new cedar-chip roof.