Strip Search (27 page)

The worst of it was, if Granger came after me again, now, I’m not sure I’d fight him. Maybe it was just the stress weighing down on me while I waited desperately for the pharmaceutical FedEx. But somehow, I couldn’t shake the feeling that despite my best efforts, everything I’d written was critically, tragically wrong.

“FOR GOD’S SAKE, can’t you hold still?” Tucker bellowed. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to cut a leg off?”

He wiped his brow, then took aim again with his axe. It would be so much simpler if she weren’t so particular. Everything had to be done just right—removal at precisely the pinpointed place, the body carried to a predetermined location, most of them incredibly inconvenient. And it had to be on the right day. All according to the numbers. Maybe when the baby came she would relax a little. Even though she wasn’t showing that much, the doctor said her time was a lot closer than they had previously imagined. Maybe her health was a factor—he didn’t know. Unfortunately, between now and the blessed arrival, there was still much work to be done.

“Please don’t do this,” Brazee cried. His hands were restrained behind his back, his right leg was handcuffed to a table, but unfortunately Tucker hadn’t brought anything to close his mouth. Next time he would invest in some heavy-duty duct tape. It would be worth the investment. “What are you, a critic or something?”

Tucker didn’t honor that one with a reply. He had hoped that after the branding, after the searing pain of an
N
imprinted on his leg, he might be somewhat subdued. That was how it had worked before. But not this guy. No matter what Tucker did to him, he just kept on talking. Like, thanks for the essay, but you’re still losing your leg, okay? It was as if the man thought he was still on the stage and the adrenaline rush was immunizing him against the pain. He worked mindlessly through the same old patter, as if his purgatory was being forced to run though an endless lounge act, over and over again. And Tucker’s purgatory was to have to listen to it.

“I mean, I know some of the patter fell flat tonight. I was having troubles, you know, with my manager. I was distracted. But I can do better. I promise. What’d’you want? A song? A joke? I know some great ones. Hey, how many Republicans does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

Tucker tightened the rope that held the man’s right leg to the card table. “I’m not interested in jokes.”

“What then? You wanna song? You wanna hear ‘I Miss You So in Springtime’? I mean, I hate that old song, never wanted to record it in the first place. But for you—I’ll make an exception.”

“This may come as a shock to you,” Tucker said, balancing the axe in his hands, “but this isn’t really about you. Certainly not about your stage act.”

“Then—what is it?”

“It’s about fate, destiny. God is in the numbers,” he said, with a self-evident air of pride. “Brace yourself. I imagine this will hurt.”

“Wait!” Brazee cried. “What about—everything you said. About my daughters.”

“What about it?” Tucker glanced at his watch impatiently. He knew he had only so much time before others would enter the theater. Plus, he wanted to get to the delivery spot before the sun rose and his chances of being detected multiplied.

“You…you gotta understand what really happened.”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

“But you’re punishing me—”

“I don’t make the decisions.”

“It wasn’t my fault. There was nothing I could do. The kid’s mother wanted it this way. And I’ve taken good care of them.”

“The Department of Human Services has a different opinion.”

“’Cause I was late with the money a few times? I’m an entertainer, for God’s sake. An artist. I don’t get a check every two weeks like the mundanes. I pay when I can. But I’ve always made it good in the end. Hell, with the manager I got, it’s a miracle I work at all.”

Tucker shrugged, then focused his attention on the man’s leg. The dismemberment had to occur at just the right point, the juncture between the pelvis and the thigh. He needed to remove the leg, but nothing more and nothing less. He raised the axe—

All at once, Brazee thrust his upper body forward, as if performing a monumental sit-up. He head-butted Tucker in the abdomen, sending him reeling backward. Tucker was tempted to bring the axe down on his neck, but he knew that was not what Esther wanted. While Tucker was trying to think what to do next, Brazee brought his free leg around and kicked Tucker.

Tucker hit the wall with a thud.

With an impressive display of strength, Brazee balanced himself on his free leg, using it as a pivot point to twist around. Although he was still dazed, Tucker saw to his horror that the man had managed to get his hands free. He dove forward across the room.

He was trying to get the axe.

Tucker forced himself into action. He raced forward, knees still wobbly, and stomped on the man’s hand with all the force he could bring to bear. Brazee shouted in pain, pulling his hand back and cradling it against his body.

Tucker grabbed him by the hair and slung him roughly back to where he was supposed to be. He raised his fist toward the man’s face—

Then stopped. There could be no extraneous bruising. She had made that clear. They must stick to the plan. If we indulge our violent passions, we are animals. If we hew to the plan, we become creatures such as even God must sit up and take notice.

He cuffed the man’s hands, this time making certain there was no chance of his escaping. He wiped the sweat from his brow, wiped his hands dry, and recovered his axe.

“You shouldn’t’ve done that,” Tucker muttered, low and gravelly.

Brazee was amiable and nonchalant. “Hey, can’t blame a man for trying, right?”

Tucker’s glare was sufficient to communicate his feelings.

“Okay, look, I’ll come clean,” the pinioned man said. “I got some money. You don’t need to be telling the little lady in Terre Haute or nothin’, but I do got a little something stashed away. A Cayman Islands account. You know how it goes. Not a fortune, but every penny of it is yours.”

“I don’t want money.”

“Then what do you want?” The strain was evident in his voice. Beads of sweat streamed down the sides of his face. “Girls? Is that what trips your trigger?”

Tucker hesitated for a fraction of a second.

“Aha! Well, let me tell you, mister, you’ve come to the right place. I got girls out the wazoo. I’d be more than happy to throw a few your way.”

“I—I don’t—”

“And we’re not just talking any girls here, buddy. We’re talking Grade A prime cheesecake. Showgirls. Strippers. Hometown homecoming queens looking for their first big break. I mean, you’ve never seen boobs like the boobs on some of those wheatfield wonders.”

“I—I’m not interested—”

“You wouldn’t say that if you saw them. These girls will do anything, my friend. Anything. Let your imagination run wild—you still won’t come up with everything these girls will do. And they’re limber—there’s no position they can’t make work.”

“I—”

“Threesomes, what about that? I bet you’ve never been the crème filling in an Oreo cookie, huh? This is your big chance. A once-in-a-lifetime.”

“I’m—not interested.”

“I know—you’re worried about…the way you look. Listen to me, bud—these girls don’t care. They aren’t gonna be looking at your face, if you know what I mean.”

“I—am not interested!” Tucker bellowed. “I have a girl. A beautiful, smart wonderful woman. I love her. I love her and she—she—” Tucker cried out, something between a growl and a battle cry, and the axe swung downward, precisely on target.

It was just as well there was no one else in the theater. Some of the diners in Monet’s, almost three hundred feet away, heard something strange, faint, but still possessing its distinctive character—an agonized cry of un-endurable pain. They assumed there had been an accident in the kitchen and went about eating their asparagus mousseline.

“AMELIA!” I SAID, glancing up from the papers that spread across my desk like an asexually reproducing organism. “What brings you to my pathetic workstation?”

Amelia smiled a little, but it struck me as a pretty weak effort. “Doing the friend in need bit. Thought you could use a little cheering up.”

“I guess you’ve read my report.”

“Umm, well, actually, no. Should I?”

“Not really. Won’t tell you a damn thing. So if it’s not the report, what brings you to—”

“I have it on good authority that you’re about to receive a visitation from Granger.”

“You say that like he’s an archangel or something.”

“Maybe one of the ones who got booted out and had to take up new residence in H-E-double-hockey-sticks.”

“What makes you think—”

“He stomped though the crime lab, trying to get a fix on what little evidence we picked up at the last crime scene, griping all the way.”

“He wasn’t impressed by your ear impression?”

“Oddly enough, no. The problem is, every time he groused about what sorry shape this case is in, he dropped your name.”

“Well, it is all my fault, of course.”

“Yeah. And I figure he’ll be here soon to tell you about it. So I just wanted to make sure you were…umm…”

“Make sure I was what?” I said, my eyes narrowing.

“Just to…make sure you were okay. You seem to be okay.”

And I certainly was, ever since the morning FedEx packages arrived. I shoved mine in my desk and was still waiting for an opportunity to open them. Amelia obviously suspected something. I must be slurring or looking drowsy or…whatever. That was the problem with switching substances. I had mastered the fine art of being a high-functioning drunk. Pharmaceuticals were a whole new world.

“Well, don’t drink too much coffee. Makes you jittery.”

“Too late. I was born jittery.”

“Speaking of coffee—put in the new coffee table yet?”

I squirmed. “Well…”

“But you will. Soon. Right?”

“I…Yes. Sure. Soon as I can.”

“Great.” She lifted an eyebrow. “I think I hear His Master’s Footsteps. Good luck. Try not to piss him off.”

“That would be a first.” Almost the instant Amelia scurried away—taking an alternate route so she wouldn’t have to explain why she wasn’t handcuffed to her microscope—she was replaced by the mustachioed ruddy face of my arch-nemesis. Okay, so maybe the killer should be my arch-nemesis. Granger was a lesser one of the…nemeses? Try saying that three times fast.

Without a word, Granger flung a copy of my report onto my desk.

“Thanks,” I said, “I’ve already read it.”

“That is without question the most useless, unmitigated waste of time I have read in my entire life.”

“You had to look up the three-syllable words, didn’t you?”

“Don’t be smart with me.”

“I won’t. Being smart would put you at a distinct disadvantage.”

His ruddy cheeks were getting ruddier. “There’s not a single thing of use to my detectives in that entire report!”

“I did warn you that it was premature.”

“You didn’t warn me that you were incompetent!”

I felt the short hairs on the back of my neck stiffening. In an attempt to display my moral and intellectual superiority, I tried to remain calm. “I am not incompetent. I have been of great use to this department for over nine years. I solved the Wyndham killings.”

“Ancient history. I want to know what you’ve done for us here, now. On this case. Because if there isn’t anything, I can think of about a dozen more productive ways that your salary could be put to use.”

I breathed in deeply, then slowly released it, silently chanting a mantra involving several words you couldn’t say in front of your mother. “If you’re quite finished—”

“I haven’t even started. I want you to stop dragging the chief’s boy to these godawful crime scenes.”

“Actually, I haven’t taken him to any—”

“Don’t do yourself any favors. Everyone in the department thinks he carried you through the Edgar case, then let you take the credit for it.”

“
What
?”

“And what does that say, when you can’t solve a case without some brain case in tow?”

“He is not—”

“Whatever. He’s the chief’s son, and the chief doesn’t like it, so neither do I.”

“If he’s so damn smart he solved the Edgar case single-handedly, don’t we want him working on this case, too?”

“No. He is not a member of the department. He has not had the proper training. Every time you take him out into the field, you put his life in danger.”

“I would never put his life in danger!”

“You already have.”

I know I shouldn’t let Granger get my goat like that, damn it. But he managed to work me over but good every time we talked. That was the flaw in knowing someone for too long, especially if that someone is a total asshole. He knew all the right buttons to push. And he pushed them with impunity.

“I will amend my report,” I said, making some attempt at civil reconciliation, “as soon as we have more information from the new crime scene.”

“That may not be good enough. Have you seen the morning paper?”

I hadn’t, since I hadn’t left the office all night. He spread the morning
Courier
on my desk. The double-size bold headline read: POLICE STYMIED BY MUTILATION KILLER.

“I got the mayor breathing down my back,” Granger said, and for a brief moment, I almost felt sorry for him. “Strange as this may seem, he doesn’t think coverage like this is going to be good for the number one tourist city in America. He wants this creep caught. So do I.”

“When we have more information—”

“Great. At the rate you’re going, it’ll only take twenty more murders for you to catch him.” He tossed a stack of paper onto my desk. “Here are the preliminary reports.”

“And do they support your brilliant Jack the Ripper theory?”

Granger straightened. “To be honest, no. All indications are that this lawyer was pretty much a straight shooter. Wife, kids. Haven’t found any porn in his home or office.” He paused. “I’m thinking maybe he was diddling his secretary.”

“And that puts him on the same level with a kid wanking off to
Playboy
and a porn star?”