Don't Look Now (23 page)

Bullshit
.

Paris had seen Diana three times in the previous weeks, but it had never matched the first night. Or maybe it was just the stress of the case that made him think so.

Why was he so worried about it becoming something?

He dropped a twenty on the bar, made his way to the men’s room, did his business. He stepped out of the bathroom and was just about to cross the lobby when he saw her. He knew who it was, even before she turned and showed him her profile.

It was Andrea Heller.

And she was once again decked out in her B-girl-blonde regalia.

Abigail
.

Paris stepped back into the men’s room, his heart pounding. He waited a few moments, pushed the door, peeked out. Andrea Heller was standing in front of the hotel, arms crossed, shivering in the chilly night air. Finally, a white BMW pulled up and she got in.

Paris followed.

MATT HELLER THOUGHT
:
What the hell am I doing
?

None of this had been planned to his satisfaction. Not really. Control was a very important part of his fantasy life and Andrea, it was clear, had just decided to wrest it away from him. Part of it was very exciting. Part of it scared the crap out of him.

She had leapt up from her stool and walked out of the bar with this attractive man, without even giving him a high sign of any sort. What if he hadn’t been watching them at that precise second? What if he didn’t think it was such a good idea? What if the car hadn’t been able to start?

What if Andrea was a lot more involved in this game than he had ever known?

Regardless, there he was, following his wife and another man to God knows where, to watch them do God knows what. He had always wondered what Andrea would be wearing when this finally happened; what he would finally, after all these years, see some other man unsnap, unzip, unhook, undo.

Matt Heller had also thought that what was about to happen to him would happen just once in his life, then they would go back to their marriage as if it had never happened. Each to their own private fantasies. And although he had planned it a thousand times over, now that it was unfolding in front of him like some steamy off-off-Broadway show, now as he drove four car-lengths behind his wife and another man, now that he was so furiously aroused, he wasn’t at all certain he could go through with it.

Because, besides being the most outrageous thing he had ever concocted, wasn’t this also the most dangerous? Didn’t that psycho-cop who killed himself prove that you can never tell about people?

Matt followed the white BMW from a safe distance, not knowing that yet a third car was a few lengths behind
him
, heading to the same destination.

Matt thought: Why does it have to be a fucking BMW on top of it? Couldn’t he look like that and drive a Kia or something? Or a Focus?

Matt decided to call it off. The minute he found out where they were headed, he would find a way to call it off. He would say he is Andrea’s brother or something, in from Waukeegan, with the sad news that Uncle Conway had died and that his six Akita pups needed a home.

Fantasies, unlike reality, Matt Heller thought as he rounded the exit ramp, are a lot more manageable.

And probably, he was all but certain, a whole lot safer, too.

PARIS PARKED ON
the berm of the road and walked back the quarter-mile to the single-story, rust-red building that formed the L-shaped Motel Riverview in Russelton, about thirty-five miles east of Cleveland. It was a mostly rural area, and while the motel had a small neon sign on Townshend Road, it was virtually hidden from the highway, set back a few hundred yards and bordered on three sides by a gravel parking-lot that quickly gave way to the forest.

From his position behind the first layer of second growth, Paris found himself completely obscured, yet no more than forty feet from the building. The two windows to the right were dark, but the third window, the window that corresponded to the BMW parked on the other side, was illuminated, perhaps by a light left on in the bathroom. The glow gave the impression of a diaphanous curtain drawn on a tiny stage.

Moments later a woman’s hand flipped on the light in the main room. The bright rectangle of color in the darkness looked like a film unreeling, or perhaps some big-screen television that someone placed in the middle of the forest.

Because the shade was half drawn, Paris could only see part of the man as he stood against the far wall and removed his jacket, then his shirt. His abdomen was hard and rippled, his arms muscular. He wore black pleated trousers and a thin belt. Paris occasionally caught a glimpse of Andrea Heller’s profile, she being by far the shorter of the two, but he could not see the man’s face. He would have to get closer.

Paris argued that part of him was there, hiding in the woods like a Peeping Tom, because he felt in his heart that the Pharaoh case was not closed, and that this somehow would give him insight. He argued back that there was something about the prospect of watching this woman have sex that was driving him mad.

Hadn’t he thought about Andrea Heller a number of times since they met at the Impulse Lounge that night? Hadn’t he wondered what sort of game she was playing?

Now, it appeared, he was going to find out.

He watched the man remove her blouse and unzip her skirt, letting it slide to the floor. She wore a claret-colored camisole.

They kissed for a while, caressed for a while. Then, in one powerful movement, the man lifted Andrea Heller and put her roughly on to the bed.

As they made love, Paris could only discern the back of the man’s head, his matted hair and the sinewy tiers of his back and broad shoulders. His face never came into view. As Paris stood up and tried to achieve a better vantage point, he realized that his left leg had fallen asleep. He immediately fell backward into a tree trunk, which, mercifully, was substantial enough to hold him. He righted himself, turned back to the room, and—

The explosion, the huge barrage of fireworks that Paris figured was located about an inch or so behind his eyes, came in bright orange bursts which, were it not for the pain at the base of his skull, would have been tolerable.

Then came the pain.

Then, the darkness.

Whoever had hit him from behind had been either a true professional or a true amateur. Paris had not ‘seen the lightning’ in a few years. Whoever had belted him had either clipped him just right – so he’d be out for only an hour or two – or had tried to kill him and missed completely.

But there was little doubt in Paris’s mind who had hit him. He figured it was the guy he had seen hanging around the edges of the Impulse Lounge that night, the one he’d pegged as Andrea Heller’s husband.

Either way, all things considered – the fact that it was four-something in the morning, the fact that he was lying facedown in a gravel parking-lot in Russelton, Ohio, the fact that he probably had it coming for being such a pervert – he
had
felt worse.

Paris sat up, focused on his watch, the ache sitting at the base of his neck like a full hod of bricks. His hands then instinctively tapped where his gun and shield should have been, and he was very pleased to find them in place. Then he tapped his jacket pocket and that gratifying sense of satisfaction left him just as quickly.

The photographs he had found in Tommy’s belongings were gone.

Saila does Quality
.

Shit
.

He should have stashed them away somewhere.

The light in window number three was off now, as were all the other lights in the motel. A check of the parking-lot in front showed Paris that the white BMW was gone too.

He found his legs, then his car, then his car keys.

An hour later he was throwing up in his kitchen sink.

Five hours and six aspirin later he felt nearly human.

At 2.30 p.m. he got up and went to open his door for his newspaper. He found a yellow Post-it note stuck to the inside doorframe, and his paper lying on a nearby table. He brought the note over to the window, trying his best to focus. He didn’t immediately recognize the handwriting. It read:

Stopped by, came in, decided not to wake you. (Why were these doors unlocked, detective??!!) Off to pick up Melissa for the Home & Flower Show. Hope Beth doesn’t hate me (nervous). Had to change on the fly so please mind my overnight bag. Hope you can meet us at the restaurant as planned
…

Diana

Paris looked at the couch and saw the Louis Vuitton bag. It looked new. The desire to peek inside was overwhelming, but Paris bullied it back for the time being.

He had no idea what Diana had come by, but he did recall hearing Manny let out a few barks sometime early that afternoon. He had shushed him, and the dog, not exactly Conan the Terrier anyway, had curled up on the bed.

Paris poured a second cup of coffee and flipped open the paper. It was the first day since Tommy’s death that the story wasn’t mentioned, even in a short item.

Hallelujah, Paris thought, as he gulped his coffee and headed for another scintillating adventure in urban bathing – a cold, brown shower at the Candace – a session during which he would, unknowingly, wash all traces of blood off his hands.

* * *

At five-thirty the buzzer sounded. It was Nick Raposo. He was carrying with him a bulging plastic garment bag.

‘Nick. What brings you here?’

‘Got a few things,’ Nick said, puffing from the four flights of stairs, handing Paris his hat and coat. ‘Thought you might like to take a look at them.’

Nick caught his breath while Paris hung up the man’s coat, then poured him a cup of coffee.

Paris explained to Nick that there were no leads yet, nothing to deflect Tommy’s guilt in the Pharaoh killings, but that he had a few ideas he was going to follow up on. For the time being, Nick Raposo seemed satisfied.

‘My brother’s a tailor, Jack,’ Nick said, crossing the room and grabbing the garment bag. ‘Fuckin’ genius at it, too. Always was. I figured you to be a forty-two long. Here. Try this on.’ He held up the suit coat.

Paris slipped on the cashmere blazer, and it was a perfect fit. Right down to the sleeve length. He may have felt like a dirty dime, but he looked like a million bucks.

‘The pants,’ Nick continued, ‘the pants we work on later.’

‘Nick, I don’t think I—’

‘Hey, don’t worry about this stuff being Tommy’s. It’s just things, you know. No soul, no heart. Why waste them? I sure as hell can’t use them.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Then don’t say anything.’ Nick waved a hand at the door. ‘I got a box of stuff in the car, too. Books and CDs and other things I want you to have. Jazz and some other crap. R’n’ B. Whatever the fuck that is. On the other hand, if it ain’t Frank or Tony Bennett, I’m kind of lost, you know?’

‘Thanks, Nick.’

‘Not a problem. Now get your ass downstairs and get the box out of my car. I’m too old to be hauling shit that heavy up four flights of stairs because you can’t live in a building with an elevator.’

In the larger of the two boxes Paris found some of the books he had seen when he went through Tommy’s belongings in Nick’s basement. He flipped open one book,
A Handbook of the Ancients
. It was inscribed: ‘Happy Birthday from Marta, Danny, Chauncey and the rest of the crime-drones at the Fourth.’ Paris knew them all. Marta was Marta Perez, the bombshell dispatcher. Danny was Danny Lawrence. Chauncey was Ed Chance, a lifer with a job-related limp and a pair of Great Danes the size of a loveseat.

Next was a stack of CDs and a pile of T-shirts from every major airport in America. Tommy had a thing for flight attendants. Underneath was a small leatherette photo album, one Paris had not seen before.

The first photo in the book was Tommy sitting on a concrete bench at Disney World, holding a plump little girl about two years old on his lap. The girl, who had curly blond hair and wore a neon-orange sun bonnet, didn’t look anything like Tommy, so Paris figured she wasn’t his child or even his niece. Paris marvelled. It wasn’t as if there weren’t enough single women in Cleveland. Tommy found a way to date women with two-year-old kids.

The second photograph in the book was of Tommy in a cream-colored suit, his arm around the waist of yet another gorgeous woman. It was taken at what looked to be the lobby bar at the Ritz-Carlton Cleveland. The woman had long dark hair, shapely legs. The moment Paris was able to tear himself away from the woman’s legs he noticed something else about her.

It was Diana Bennett.

Midway through Diana’s overnight bag, Paris got pissed off. Pissed at the world, pissed at his stupid fucking life, pissed that he had allowed himself to tumble even an inch for this woman, pissed that he was, at that moment, rifling her bag for the childish reason of finding not only more evidence that she had slept with Tommy Raposo – which was none of his goddamn business anyway – but evidence that she was tied to a series of homicides.

There had been nothing remotely kinky about the photo of Tommy and Diana. Nothing perverse at all. It was just a party shot of sorts; a posed picture, snapped through a boozy haze. All potentially explainable. Tommy was a cop, Diana was a prosecutor. Cops and lawyers hung out all the time.

You’re losing it, Jackie-boy
.

He reached deeper into Diana’s bag, pulled out a short black slip and bra. Next, from the large pocket at the side, he retrieved a zippered, clear-plastic make-up bag. It was the same size and type as the make-up bag found in the trunk of Tommy Raposo’s car.

‘No,’ he said aloud. ‘God no.’

Paris dumped the contents onto the dining-room table and his eyes were immediately drawn to a powder compact. He picked it up, turned it over. Engraved in silver atop the slim ebony case was the understated logo of a bird morphing into the number five. Beneath it, a silver, engraved word:

Chaligne.

* * *

‘I have to say, I’m a little jealous, Jack,’ Beth said over the phone. ‘I didn’t think she’d be so, I don’t know – what’s the word I’m looking for here – beautiful? I guess that
would
be the proper one. If you like perfect looks, that is.’