Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation (29 page)

Sitting there, I felt a shiver run up my
spine, and I forced back yet another soft-core image of my wife in
her costume as my brain shuffled through the random thoughts it had
kept waiting in the wings. Then I frowned at the provocative
cogitation.

Felicity and I had a perfectly healthy and
even fairly imaginative sex life. While the male of the species
supposedly has sexual thoughts every two minutes, I was really
starting to wonder about myself. This constant fantasizing about
her, while perfectly enjoyable in most respects, was becoming
troublesome—especially considering recent events. I made a mental
note to mention this constant obsession when my next appointment
with Helen rolled around. This, of course, triggered remembrance of
other mental notes I’d made and then promptly forgotten—such as the
whole fantasy episode surrounding Felicity’s hair when we were at
the morgue. Then there was the episode in the elevator that I’d had
when leaving the counseling office. In retrospect, I really should
have called Helen about that one immediately. Of course, it had
seemed driven by an outside force, though I wasn’t even certain
about that. Truth is, it really didn’t make much sense at all. None
of it did.

I suppose that if I was somehow becoming
overly obsessed with sex, then the lurid thoughts could very well
be my own. But even that didn’t seem correct to me. There really
seemed to be an outside presence. I was almost certain that I could
feel it. Moreover, it had something to do with Debbie Schaeffer and
Paige Lawson.

Unfortunately, everything that happened at
the morgue that night after I connected with Debbie Schaeffer was
still an out of focus jumble. What little I’d been able to pick out
here and there was completely nonsensical. Dolls in prom dresses,
makeup, a smart-mouthed cheerleader, flashing lights… Then there
was Paige Lawson. Where did she fit into all of this?

If the outside presence that was forcing all
of the lurid thoughts into my head was the one responsible for
either of their deaths, then maybe the crime—or crimes—were
motivated by sex. But one was a kidnapping and the other appeared
to be a robbery gone awry. Maybe Paige Lawson was just an anomaly—a
piece of a totally different puzzle that I was trying too hard to
make fit into a blurry and indistinct picture.

But then, every time I had one of these
semi-pornographic fantasies, there was the thing with red hair.
Both Debbie Schaeffer and Paige Lawson were blondes. So was the
woman in the elevator. So that almost had to come directly from me.
I mean I had to admit that I personally had a thing for red hair,
so that could make it highly likely that it was just my own
preference overlaying itself with the imagery.

Likely? Probably? Or just maybe?

It was starting to get very confusing again.
I’d been mulling it all over so much that it was giving me a
headache.

If Ben was correct, I was just chasing my
tail anyway, and I needed to direct my energies toward something
more productive. I finally gave up on my attempt at analysis and
decided to leave it to Helen. After all, as she’d pointed out, she
was the one with the degree in psychology. Since all of the
incidents seemed linked by sex, and that was apparently a driving
force for me these days, maybe I’d remember to mention all of this
at the next appointment.

After a moment I let out a purposeful sigh
and muttered to no one but myself, “Yeah, right.” Then before
getting out of the truck, I made yet another mental note to start
writing this stuff down so that I was no longer depending on my
easily sidetracked brain.

I’d have to start doing that later though.
Right now I just wanted to smoke another cigarette or two before
going inside.

* * * * *

“Merry freakin’ ho-ho-ho,” Ben said as I
dropped myself into one of the ancient molded-plastic seats next to
his desk. “Wanna cuppa?”

“I don’t know…” I shook my head, mentally
gagging on vivid recollections of the caustic liquid the homicide
division called coffee.

“Hey,” he exclaimed. “It’s Christmas freakin’
Eve, Kemosabe. We actually washed the pot this mornin’.”

“Yeah,” I chuckled. “Whether it needed it or
not, right?”

“Exactly.” He grinned.

I couldn’t help but notice an
n
^th
generation photocopy
gracing one corner of his desk blotter, especially since it was
positioned so that I could easily read it. A blurred but still
recognizable pair of mug shots dominated the page, showing a
rotund, bearded man in an instantly recognizable suit. The text
beneath outlined a wrap sheet stating that the individual was
wanted for breaking and entering, cookie theft, and illegal
dumping. It further went on to say that he was known by such
aliases as Saint Nick, The Jolly Elf, Santa Claus, etcetera, and
could often be found in the company of elves. Last seen fleeing in
a late model sleigh pulled by eight reindeer. Consider armed with
candy canes. Approach with caution.

“Sounds like a real tough guy,” I said,
indicating the novelty on his desk.

“Yeah,” he nodded and laughed. “The asshole
dumped a whole pile of crap at my house last year, and I ended up
holdin’ the bag for all the batteries. If I ever catch up with ‘im
I’m liable ta’ kill ‘im.” Leaning back, he took a sip of his coffee
and watched me carefully for a long moment. “So what’s up? Why
ain’t you with the little woman?”

“She’s out doing that annual charity thing
with her photography club.”

“Yeah, I know. She was just on the news about
forty-five minutes ago givin’ ‘em an interview.” He let out a low
wolf whistle. “Nice outfit.”

“Uh-huh,” I grunted, not really needing the
reminder.

“So explain that one to me.”

“What? Her costume?”

“Hell no, that was pretty self-explanatory,
ya’ lucky bastard,” he said. “I’m talkin’ about ‘er doing the whole
Miz Santa Claus thing. How’s that fit in with what you were
celebratin’ the other night?”

“It doesn’t really,” I told him. “Yule is a
religious holiday, just like Christmas or Chanukah. Santa Claus,
however, while associated with Christmas, isn’t a religious figure.
In his current incarnation he’s actually an icon of commercialism
created by a soft drink company.”

“Yeah, I read somethin’ about that already,
smartass,” he grinned. “What I’m askin’ is if you Witches celebrate
Christmas too?”

“In the sense of it being a commercialized,
secular holiday, sure, many of us do. But it doesn’t bear any
religious significance for Pagans like it does for most everyone
else.”

“So ya’ get like two holidays in one,” he
stated as much as asked.

“You could look at it that way, but Christmas
is the generally accepted holiday by society as a whole. I doubt
you’ll find many employers who give winter solstice as a paid
holiday. So it’s kind of a trade off. Besides, the actual date for
Christmas was pilfered from the Roman celebration of Saturnalia
anyway…”

“Saturn-who?”

“Forget it. You’ll just end up accusing me of
boring you with a bunch of details.”

“Yeah, I s’pose you’re right,” he nodded
almost thoughtfully as he chuckled. “Anyway, the real reason I
asked is Allison and I wanted ta’ invite you and Firehair over ta’
the house tonight if ya’ aren’t doin’ anything.”

“I thought you were having a family
get-together this evening?”

“Yeah, we are. Helen’s comin’ over, but
that’s about it. Besides, you two are like family anyway.”

“Well, we aren’t doing anything with our
families until tomorrow,” I conceded. “I’ll have to check with
Felicity, but I’m sure she’d love to come over. If you’re certain
we wouldn’t be intruding.”

“I wouldn’t’ve invited ya’ if you’d be
intruding, now would I?”

“Okay. I’ll talk to her about it, but you can
probably go ahead and just count us in.”

“Good deal. I’ll let Al know. So now that
we’ve got that outta the way, let’s get back ta’ the original
question. What gives, Row? I know damn well ya’ didn’t blow off a
chance ta’ follow Felicity around today…” He paused and gave his
head a quick shake before adding, “‘Specially today… Just ta’ come
down here an’ explain the meanin’ of Christmas to me. So what’re
you doin’ here?”

“Would you believe I just stopped in to say
‘Happy Holidays’?”

“I just told ya’ a minute ago that I saw
Firehair on TV, so I think I pretty much just said no ta’
that.”

“Yeah, didn’t think so.”

The telephone on his desk pierced the ensuing
lull with a sickly trill. My friend motioned for me to wait a
second then leaned forward and snatched up the receiver. “Homicide,
Storm.” Even as he spoke he kept his eyes on me expectantly.
“Yeah…uh-huh…sure, I’m here. Okay. See ya’ in a few.”

He dropped the handset back into its base and
leaned back once again, making the heavy-duty springs in his chair
groan in protest.

“Do you need to leave?” I asked.

“Nope. ‘Nother copper is droppin’ by for
somethin’. Charlee McLaughlin, you might remember ‘er,” he
said.

“Sure,” I nodded. “I remember Charlee.”

Detective McLaughlin had been assigned to the
Major Case Squad earlier this year when Eldon Porter had engaged in
his one-man revival of the Inquisition. I had gotten to know her
when she had volunteered to work a secondary job guarding Felicity
and me after it became obvious that I was one of Porter’s
targets.

“So you gonna tell me what’s up?” he
pressed.

“I would if I knew, Ben.”

“And that’s s’posed ta’ mean?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I didn’t
actually set out to come here. It’s just where I ended up.”

“Where’d ya’ start out for?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Jeez, Row.” He shook his head. “What’re ya’
up to now?”

“I wish I knew,” I answered him. “Something
just doesn’t feel right about everything that’s been going on.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not exactly news, white
man.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” I shook my head
vigorously. “Ever since Friday night…”

“Whoa.” Ben held up a hand to stop me. “If
this is about the phone call, I already told ya’ I’m not goin’
there.”

“It’s not about that,” I stammered my
objection. “Not really… Well, maybe…a little…but not entirely… I’ve
just got a weird feeling. It’s been way too quiet for the past
couple of days.”

“What? Like no disturbances in
the
Twilight Zone
?” He
followed up his comment with an abbreviated whistle of the old TV
show’s opening theme.

“Something like that.”

“Yeah, so?” He shrugged. “In my book, quiet’s
good.”

“But it’s been
too
quiet.”

“Ya’ sure you’re not just lettin’ your
imagination run away on ya’?”

“I don’t think so. Not this time.”

“So ya’ got somethin’ ta’ work with?” he
asked with more than just a hint of sincerity in his query this
time. “One of those hinky visions? Some more fucked up poetry?
Anything?”

“No. Not at the moment. Like I said, it’s
been quiet. What I’m talking about now is just a feeling.”

“That doesn’t really help me, Row.”

“I know, Ben. It doesn’t exactly help me
either.”

“Hey, Chief,” a voice came from behind
me.

“Yo, Chuck,” Ben returned, looking past me.
“How’s Sex Crimes treatin’ ya? Gettin’ any?”

“More than you, would be my guess,” Detective
Charlee McLaughlin joked as she came into view. “And I’m being
treated about as well as a sex crime can treat anyone I suppose.”
With that she turned her attention to me. “Hey, Rowan. I didn’t
know you were here. How’re you doing?”

“I’m good, Charlee,” I acknowledged.
“You?”

“Can’t complain.” She shot me a quick grin.
“Speaking of sex crimes, I saw Felicity on the news a little while
ago.” She punctuated her comment with a whistle. “I’m surprised you
aren’t out there playing bodyguard. I think the reporter was sweet
on her.”

“I’m sure she can handle herself,” I chuckled
then asked, “How’s your daughter doing?” I was almost grateful for
the sudden distraction the chitchat provided.

“Great. She’s planning to transfer up to UM
Columbia after the spring semester.”

“Terrific. Still planning to major in
journalism?”

“Yep. That’s the plan.”

“Good deal.”

“So what brings you down here?” she asked and
then continued with a good-natured chuckle. “Storm dragging you
into something else he can’t figure out?”

“Hey now,” Ben interjected with a grin, “I’m
not the one that transferred outta Homicide to go slummin’ in
Vice.”

“I just got tired of seein’ your ugly face
every morning, Storm,” she told him.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he waved her off, “so
what brings ya’ up here?”

“Chasing a hunch, actually.” She turned
serious. “You got a minute?”

“Do you two need me to leave?” I asked.

Ben gave Detective McLaughlin a questioning
look, and she shook her head.

“No, I trust you. Just don’t repeat anything
you hear, okay?”

“Of course not.”

“Then grab some real estate,” Ben said as he
motioned to another of the 70’s era plastic chairs that was
positioned next to a desk behind her. “Whatcha’ got?”

“Rumor is,” she began as she slid the seat
over and parked her small frame in it, “you’ve got a dead blonde
with a stun gun welt on her neck.”

My friend nodded acknowledgement. “Yeah. Sure
do. Looks like a robbery-assault gone south. What about it?”

“Well, I assume you’ve been watching the news
and have heard about the serial rapist?”

“Yeah. Kinda hard ta’ miss. You workin’ that
one?”

“Yeah, I’m up to my ass in it. Anyway, we’ve
been playing some of the facts close to the vest.” She looked him
square in the face. “And like I said, this is just a hunch… But the
deal is, as of this past Thursday morning I’ve got eight very
confused, very blonde rape victims. All of ‘em with stun gun welts
and testing positive for Roofies.”