Don't Look Now (22 page)

And then there was a threatened garbage strike which, in a purely sensory capacity, eclipsed everything.

Yet any time a police officer is directly involved in a big-time felony, or some kind of sex crime, it was always a huge embarrassment for the department. When you combine the two, the fallout is devastating and, considering the longevity that sex gossip usually has, politically far-reaching.

After a few thousand missiles from all corners, the department’s new whiz-kid spin doctor, a PR flack named Teddy Dahlhausen, had somehow managed to put the Pharaoh case into manageable media blocks. The grand jury was satisfied with the evidence that linked Sergeant Thomas Anthony Raposo to the deaths of Emily Reinhardt, Maryann Milius, Karen Schallert and Eleanor Burchfield, and that seemed to be that.

Paris reached his desk and was relieved to find only three messages waiting for him: Diana, Cyndy Taggart, and Beth.

Three women. Could be much, much worse, he thought as he picked up the phone, then pecked out his wife’s number. Could have easily been three guys named Rasheed, Nunzio, and Hector.

He left a message on Beth’s cell phone, then dialed Cyndy’s number.

‘Got some stuff of yours,’ she said. ‘You must have left it in my car that day we staked out the Versailles.’

Paris hadn’t touched base with Cyndy Taggart since the debriefing. Cyndy worked out of the Fourth.

‘Thanks, I’ll pick it up at the station.’

‘You all right?’

‘Yeah,’ Paris answered. ‘Barely.’

‘If you say so, Jack. Anyway, maybe I’ll drop it all off to you tomorrow. I’ll be up around Eighty-five and Carnegie after dinner.’

‘Okay,’ Paris said, distracted. He decided to trust her. ‘Hang on, Cyndy.’ Paris looked into the duty room, into the adjacent offices. The floor was very light with detectives and other personnel. Greg Ebersole was in his office with his feet up, sawing logs. Paris closed his door, picked up the phone.

‘You know I’m not happy with how fast this was all shut down.’

‘I know,’ Cyndy said.

‘I’m going through Tommy’s things at his father’s house, and I found these photographs of a woman. And it’s wild stuff.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s sadomasochism. Costume stuff.’

‘Tommy is in them?’

‘No.’

‘Can you identify the woman?’

‘No. Can’t see her face in any of them. But believe me, you sure can see everything else.’

‘And why do you think this woman is tied to the murders?’

Paris wasn’t sure. He told Cyndy that.

‘Tommy
did
get around, you know.’

‘Yeah, but there wasn’t any S&M stuff in his belongings,’ Paris said. ‘No magazines, videos, books. No whips and chains. Certainly nothing like this.’ Paris fell silent for a few beats. ‘So tell me, Cyndy. Why can’t I shake the idea that there is a woman involved?’

‘Because now you’ve got photographs.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Okay, Jack,’ Cyndy said. ‘I have a few minutes. Gimme the list.’

‘Okay. One, the make-up kit. Just doesn’t fit with Tommy Raposo, does it? He’s cutting up women, wiping their faces clean and putting make-up on them like he works a cosmetic counter at Macy’s? Make sense to you?’

‘Nope. Next.’

‘Samantha Jaeger.’

‘What about her?’

Paris hadn’t told anyone about the Jaeger woman’s bedroom. He wasn’t going to start now, either. The Jaeger woman’s death was ruled accidental, so there was no homicide investigation. ‘I know her death was an accident, but the older woman next door said she heard a man and a woman arguing the night Samantha took the fall.’ Paris heard someone walk by his door. He waited a few seconds. ‘I don’t know. There’s a woman around here somewhere.’

Paris went on to tell Cyndy about the ‘Saila does Quality’ message on one of the photographs. Cyndy said that the name held no significance for her either, but was much quicker to pick up on ‘quality’ as meaning a possible location.

‘You think “Saila” is the woman’s name?’ Cyndy asked.

‘Don’t know. But I’m going to run it anway.’

‘Okay. Anything else?’

‘Well, last but not least, of course, is the fact that we have no razor. If someone was setting Tommy up, why not leave the murder weapon? I mean, with all that neatly placed evidence in Tommy’s apartment, why not give us the weapon? You can pick up a straight razor for twenty-five bucks. Why not leave it?’

‘Unless.’

‘Unless you weren’t done with it.’

‘So …’ Cyndy began, knowing full well the answer, but playing the game all detectives played: Saying It Out Loud. ‘What’s the next step?’

‘Next step is to revisit the Quality Inn and see if the photo matches up with the guest room where Emily Reinhardt was killed. If we get a match there, I think we can get the DA to consider reopening the case. We’ve got an accomplice.’

‘Makes sense.’

‘We’ll talk later,’ Paris said as Bobby Dietricht knocked on his door and then entered anyway.

‘All right,’ Cyndy said. ‘But now you’ve got me thinking.’

‘Good.’

‘I’ll stop by with your stuff tomorrow.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Maybe I’ll go with you to the Quality.’

‘Even better,’ Paris said, and hung up the phone.

After Dietricht left, Paris called Diana.

‘Are you going to make it to the Home and Flower Show with us?’ she asked.

‘Us,’ Paris repeated.

‘Melissa and I are going tomorrow? Remember? We talked about it?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Paris said. ‘I remember. I just don’t think I can go, Diana. I’m buried down here.’

‘Are you sure this is going to be okay with Beth? This strange woman doing something like this on a Saturday afternoon with her only daughter?’

‘Believe me, if you’re okay with me, you’re okay with Beth. I’m a cop, remember?’

‘You’re right. I just get a little paranoid. There’s three people I want to like me now and it’s too much.’

‘You’ll wow her,’ Paris said.

‘Kowloon Garden afterwards? On me?’

‘I’ll do my best.’

Paris hung up the phone, awash with Dad-guilt. He hadn’t seen Melissa for more than a few minutes in the past two weeks, although it was certainly understandable in the light of the Pharaoh case aftermath. He had caught the last five minutes of Missy’s play, but when he went backstage afterwards he immediately saw that he wasn’t fooling her into thinking he had seen the whole thing. If pressed, she would have asked him specifics anyway, and he would have caved.

Missy was a very bright girl, very worldly for her age. She read the newspapers and she watched the local news and she knew full well what had happened where her father worked. She knew that the man who had killed those women had worked with her father.

The information, unfortunately, was not lost on some of Melissa’s schoolmates, either. ‘M. P. is a pervert’ showed up written on the blackboard in her homeroom one morning. Another creative young artist had ripped an illustration of an Egyptian mummy out of a school encyclopedia and drawn a rather obscene appendage between the figure’s legs, then taped it to Missy’s gym locker. The ‘Pharaoh’ aspect of the case had been well publicized.

Paris put his feet up and attempted to catch a nap.

He tried to remember if there really
was
a time when art class meant white paste, construction paper, and safety scissors.

IT WAS FRIDAY
and this glorious stranger stood a few fragrant inches away from me. We were in a quiet, multi-roomed nightclub called Whitney’s.

Saila and I knew that we shouldn’t have been out playing so soon, but spring was in the air, I guess.

‘You look like a very young Jeanne Moreau,’ I said. ‘Around the time she made
Five Branded Women
, I’m thinking.’

The edges of her mouth turned up slightly, but she wasn’t quite ready to release the smile just yet. Her eyes betrayed her, telling me that my reference was not lost on her. Nor were my looks. She was dressed conservatively in a burgundy tailored suit, cream blouse and navy heels, yet there was no concealing the fullness of her breasts, the firmness of her upper thighs. She was a working woman, a citizen, and the very idea sent my blood to steam.

The fact that Saila was standing right behind me, sipping her drink at the bar, made the moment all but unbearable.

‘Do I?’

‘
Oh
yes. But sexier,’ I replied, moving closer to her. She didn’t flinch or pull away in the slightest. ‘Jeanne Moreau was so, how should I put it, two-
dimensional
.’ My knee touched hers, a delicious shiver. ‘You, on the other hand, are flesh and blood.’

Her hand trembled a bit as she reached for her nearly empty glass, betraying her resolve to remain in complete control of the situation. I was intimidating her somewhat and, as always, that pleased me.

I imagined her to be about twenty-eight or so, probably married, probably a suburban mommy, although she wore no wedding ring. Her blond, permed hair was obviously a wig, but perhaps that was part of her appeal for me. She was out to play. She fancied herself the conquering bitch, and for the moment, I let her believe it.

She called herself Abigail.

After a very erotic slow dance, we returned to the bar. Saila was on the loose. I didn’t see her.

‘Can I get you something?’

‘White Russian,’ she said.

I motioned, ordered. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her looking me up and down, further cruising my wares, as it were. She was very well accessorized herself, tasteful, with moderate-to-expensive jewelry, just a few show-pieces. A very pretty Piaget watch. Her make-up was flawless.

She was also petite in just the proper, most appealing ways: small hands and feet, a tiny, turned-up nose, a narrow waist.

Our drinks arrived. I clasped mine, an Absolut on the rocks, with my cocktail napkin – in case a quick departure was forthcoming – and raised the glass.

I recited: ‘
Hold fast thy secret, and to none unfold. Lost is a secret when that secret’s told
.’

We touched glasses, sipped.

‘What does that mean exactly?’ she asked.

‘It’s a caveat. It’s from the
Arabian Nights
.’

‘That’s odd.’

‘What?’

‘You don’t
look
Arabian.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m very aware of my appearance.’

‘I’ll bet you are,’ the woman said, fashioning her mouth first into a smile, then around her straw. Her lips were scarlet. I imagined them doing all sorts of things.

‘So, what’s an intelligent, cultured woman such as yourself doing in a common roadhouse such as this?’ I asked. ‘And why on earth would you entertain a villainous lout like me?’

‘Oh,’ the woman said, searching for a morsel of wit. ‘You could say I’m slumming.’

‘Really?’ I asked. I put my hand upon her leg. She tensed the slightest bit but did not resist me. Instead, her eyelids fluttered once and I knew that she was mine. ‘And just what is it that you’re used to?’ I moved closer.

‘I’m used to the best.’

‘The best.’

She looked at my lips. ‘Yes.’

‘And what if I told you that you had never once
had
the best?’

‘I’d say …’ she began, her hands finding my waist, giving in to me. ‘I’d say
show
me.’

She leaned forward, ran the tip of her tongue over my lips, then pulled away.

God
, I loved a challenge. ‘Come with me,’ I said.

‘No.’

‘Come with me now. Just for an hour.’

‘No.’

‘You’re going to play with me, aren’t you?’

‘As long as I can.’

‘I think your time is running out, kitty-cat.’

Without further talk the blond woman in the expensive suit and the harlot’s wig took me by the hand and led me toward the lobby, full of sass and self-possession.

I knew we were being watched, of course.

My only hope was that, for everyone’s sake, he was part of the game.

PARIS DID HIS
best to block out the conversation around him, even though it was quiet, piano-bar talk, cool and important: Land Rovers, stocks and bonds, the films of Miranda July, smart drugs.

He had other things on his mind.

So many things didn’t fit. For instance, the time of Tommy’s call the night of the Schallert murder. Tommy had taken the call at 1.12 a.m. Saturday, and called Paris at the Caprice Lounge at 1.18. Tommy had indeed called from Berea.

The coroner’s office was able to do a liver-temperature reading on the body and the reading put the time of Karen Schallert’s death at very close to twelve-thirty, which made it at least
possible
for Tommy to have driven to Red Valley.

The woman Tommy was with that night – one Arlene Ward – said Tommy had gotten to her place around a quarter to one, maybe one o’clock.

And then there was the fact that Tommy’s hair was dark brown, so why on earth would he
dye
it dark brown? Yet, the lab had found traces of the EZ Color Deep Chestnut in Tommy’s hair.

And then there was the matter of Samantha Jaeger’s bedroom. A sick little ditty known only to Jack Paris and Mr Larry Goldblatt, the super at 11606 Clifton Boulevard.

Paris conceded that he might never understand the significance.

Because, of the 140 photocopies Samantha Jaeger had tacked to her bedroom walls – photocopies of the killer’s sketch that had run in the
Plain Dealer
, blown up to an eight-by-ten size – fifteen of them had been drawn upon. She had smeared lipstick on the man’s lips, rouge in the hollow beneath his cheek-bones. The lenses of his glasses were tinted yellow and orange and amber, some gradient. The rest of the black-and-white images were untouched, showing the same idiot repetition of the grayed-out tweed of the man’s Irish walking-hat, the same cleft in his chin. Paris imagined the woman furtively visiting a Kinko’s Copy Center at three in the morning with her
Plain Dealer
, running off all those copies of the composite sketch, taking them home, mounting them carefully on the walls, drawing on them and then … what?

Something twisted, he was sure.

The bottom line was that the department had lacquered the case shut the moment the story had moved to the Metro page.