The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (15 page)

Sloan called them to order. "Last night I got a
call from Laura Ramsey. I'm sure you've all been reading her stuff on
the case. It seems she's turned up a witness in the DiFranco killing.
Terri DiFranco's best friend, Marie."

The room was suddenly quiet.

"This morning I went out and picked her up
myself. Her identification is sketchy. It was night, but she did see
him and she has confirmed his description—thin, dark hair and
beard, tinted glasses. Right now she's inside looking at mug shots."

"A real break—"

"Which brings me to my next point, Spivak.
Before you start clicking your heels in the air, tell me why we need
the newspapers to show us how to do our job. This girl was Terri
DiFranco's best friend. She's not from outer space. Okay, enough."
He checked his notes. "Evans, where the hell is that report on
the theatrical costumers? What gives?"

Evans looked like a chastened buddha. "We
checked on them, lieutenant. We went back over two years in every
costumers' records and pulled all the sales slips for beards or wigs.
There's at least four or five hundred of them. Right now we're
checking them against the known-sex-offender file to see if we can
get a match. That's about all we can do . . . it'd take Rafferty and
me a year to check them all out on foot."

Sloan calmed down some. They weren't goofing off;
they were doing it by the numbers, only the leads were too damn few
and far between. "You're right, I guess, especially since it's
only speculation that our boy is in disguise. And if he is, he
probably gave a phony name when he bought the beard. But follow up on
any sex-offender matches. Who knows?"

Detective Kane stood up. ”Lieutenant . . ."

"Speak."

"I went back to Lagniappe again—"

"I thought I told you to give it a rest."

"You did, but you also told us to use our best
judgment. So I went back, and I met an artist there, a Carl Laredo.
Nice guy. We got to talking and he introduced me to the owner, Justin
Fortier. You remember we had a prior complaint about him from one of
his waitresses. I figure we ought to check it out further."

"Spivak, you heard her. Rafferty and Evans, get
back to those costumer receipts. Kane, come with me. I need you with
this Marie, Terri DiFranco's friend. She's still pretty scared, you
can help calm her down."

They went to the interrogation room, where Marie was
finished looking at mug shots and was now looking at photos of cars.
A uniformed policewoman was helping her.

“
Any luck in the mug books?" asked Sloan.

The policewoman shook her head. Marie looked up. "I
. . . I didn't see him." She picked up a picture of a car. "I
did find this, though. It looks like the car."

Sloan turned it over. On the back it said, "Datsun
300ZX." She had said it was a 300ZX before. "Kane," he
said, "order a complete run from Motor Vehicles of all 300ZX's
in the Philadelphia area. I don't care how many there are. We can't
afford to pass up anything. Check the owners against the
known-sex-offender file. Hell, see if Mr. Fortier happens to own
one."

He turned to the uniformed policewoman. "While
Detective Kane and I have a chat with Marie, bring in the police
artist. Let's see if Rembrandt can draw us a suspect."
 
 

CHAPTER 12

LAURA, A few minutes early for her lunch with Cynthia
Ducroit, pushed her way through the swinging doors on Arch Street and
entered the Reading Terminal Market. Originally begun in the 1800s as
a farmer's market but now expanded over a square block to include
restaurants and ethnic food stalls, it was one of her very favorite
places in Philadelphia. The smell of barbecued chicken from the Amish
section was drawing throngs for lunch, and behind the counters the
Amish people with their beards and hats or old-fashioned long dresses
were I rushing about trying to take care of customers.

She watched for a moment, then strolled toward the
center of the Market, stopping at a fish counter to see the catch of
the day, stopping again to say hello to Harry Ochs, her favorite
butcher. Past his stall, toward the Twelfth Street side, was
Bassett's Ice Cream and the flower stall. She walked deeper into the
center of the Market toward the Coastal Cave Trading Company, where
she was to meet Cynthia.

As it turned out, Cynthia, too, was early and was
already seated at the counter talking to Lobster Bob, the owner of
The Coastal Cave Trading Company, which specialized in Maine lobster
and other seafood delicacies. Laura joined her now at the counter,
taking the stool beside her.

Over drinks and lobster salad Laura said, "Like
I told you on the phone, I've been assigned to do a piece on Felix
and I need your help for background. If there's anything you don't
feel comfortable talking about, don't answer it. Okay?"

"Okay."

"What was it like being married to him?"

"You never knew what was going to happen. One
day we'd be rich, rolling in money, the next day he'd sink it into
another deal and lose it all. It was kind of like living with a
compulsive gambler."

"And you wanted more security?"

Before Cynthia could answer they were interrupted by
the appearance . . . that was the word for it . . . of Carl Laredo,
wearing a light sportscoat, a black bandana tied around his neck and
a dark green T-shirt advertising Rolling Rock beer. But there was
something different about him. It took Laura a moment to realize what
it was. Carl had shaved off his beard.

"Well, if it isn't my two favorite ladies. Mind
if I join you?"

"Sure, join us," Cynthia said before Laura
could demure, "Laura's interviewing me about Felix."

As Carl took the stool on the other side of her,
Cynthia said what Laura was thinking, "Carl, what happened to
your beard?"

"I just got tired of it," he said with a
shrug.

Lobster Bob came over, and Carl gave him an order for
oysters on the half-shell and smoked trout.

"No, really, why'd you do it? There's always
more to it than that when a man shaves off his beard," pressed
Cynthia.

"Actually, I did it for my show in New York. A
new image, you know. Beards aren't in anymore, at least not in the
art world. They've become a cliché." He looked toward Laura.
"Those pieces you've been writing about that South Philly girl
were marvelous, really insightful and quite moving."

"I must agree," said Cynthia. "If you
make it a series I wouldn't be surprised to see you win some sort of
award, maybe even the Pulitzer. When I read about that girl I cried."

"Me, too," said Carl, "but what got me
was that eyewitness account. Where did you come up with that?"

"Please, guys, flattery will get you everywhere,
but if I want to keep my job I have to finish this piece on Felix.
Now, Cynthia, you were saying about Felix. What was it like when you
weren't up financially?"

"Felix could be two different people. When he
was broke he never gave up, but he would get withdrawn, silent,
moody."

"That's not so unusual," Carl put in. "A
lot of people get like that when they feel pressure. What was it that
broke you up? I've never heard you say."

Laura was beginning to feel like a supernumerary.

Cynthia hesitated, then said, "I guess you could
say it was mostly on account of his wanting children and my
resisting. I feel differently now . . ."

"The old biological clock?" Laura asked.

"I suppose . . ."

Carl, looking bored, said, "Enough of this
biological clock stuff . . . Laura, what I want to hear about is that
eyewitness of yours. You don't even say whether it's a he or a she."

As she looked at Carl, Laura thought how unhelpful
even specific descriptions could be. From what Marie had said, Carl
seemed to fit the description of Terri's killer, minus a beard, but
then no doubt so did plenty of other men in the city.

"How about a three-way deal," said Cynthia.
"If Laura tells you about the eyewitness, you have to tell us
what it was like to date Missy Wakefield."

"Why?"

"Well, I saw her with Felix last night at the
opera. They left before the first act was over, very noticeably and
very rude . . . I was just wondering what she was like—"

"You mean what Felix sees in her?" Clearly
Cynthia was not over her ex.

"If you want to put it that way."

"Fine with me. Laura?"

"Yes, Laura, if you don't go along I won't help
anymore about Felix," said Cynthia.

Strange, Laura thought, how her two assignments kept
being linked. Still, she'd play along, see where it took her.

"What do you want to know?"

"About the eyewitness," Carl said. "The
stuff you people leave out is what's tantalizing. I understand that
until the killer is caught you have to be careful, but let me try a
couple of questions. Was jealousy involved? I mean, was the
eyewitness jealous of either Terri or the boyfriend?"

"A good question," Laura said, thinking
maybe Carl should be the reporter. He was good at asking good
questions. "I suppose you could say jealousy played some part
with the witness, but if  you're asking whether that could be
the motive for the killing, that the eyewitness got jealous of one or
the other, then killed Terri and now is trying to frame the missing
boyfriend, I'd say that's impossible. And that's also all I can tell
you, in addition to what's in the article."

"That's fine, you just answered all my questions
with one word," Carl said.

"What word was that?"

"I'm a painter. When I use colors I use them
precisely. I don't use blue. I use sky blue, or medium blue, or navy
blue, never just blue. I know you, Laura. We're friends, and I know
you try to use words the way I use colors. The way you said that it
was impossible for the eyewitness to be the killer can mean only one
thing—the eyewitness was a female. But what was she doing hanging
around outside? Don't tell me . . . she was a friend of the boyfriend
or a friend of Terri's. It's not likely she was a friend of the boy;
he'd hardly tell her about taking someone out to kill. So she's
probably a friend of Terri's. Most likely her best friend. Who else
would she tell?"

Laura was upset, she'd said too much and now needed
to recover. "What if it was another boyfriend of Terri's?"
she said.

"Not likely. You said in your article that the
witness didn't actually see the killing. If it was a boy, and he
thought there was sex going on inside, don't tell me that he wouldn't
be peeping in the window and so would have seen the whole thing."

"That's just speculation," Laura said,
again realizing she'd let out more than she should have, especially
for Marie's sake . . .

"Okay, you've shown off, Mr. Detective, now
let's hear about Missy," said Cynthia.

"Well," he said, "she's one
interesting woman . . ."

"That earns you nothing. Come on, Carl."

"It's hard to put into words. She's beautiful
and rich, and a loner. She knows everyone but has no friends. Not
one, except maybe me—"

"Look, we all know she's not a nice person, but
what we want—"

"What you want to know," he said half
smiling, "is what she is like in bed."

Laura, who had been only half-listening, still
worrying if she'd endangered Marie, was pulled back by that question
and was surprised to hear herself saying, "Yes, Carl . . . let's
hear it in one word."

"Touché," he said, hesitated a moment and
came up with: "Creative." He looked at them. "And
that's all you'll get from me. After all, a gentleman doesn't kiss
and tell." When they started to protest he held up his hands.
"No, enough . . . it's your turn, Cynthia. You're on about
Felix."

Turning to Laura, Cynthia said, "Are you going
to see him personally for this piece?"

"Tonight, we're having dinner."

"Whose idea was that?" she said, an edge in
her voice.

"His."

He didn't mention it when she saw him at the opera,
she thought.

"Well, what else do you want to know?"

"Tell me about his prison conviction."
Laura said.

"How did you find out about that?"

"Someone in New Orleans told me."

"There's not much I can tell you," she
said. "It happened after we were divorced. All I know is he took
in a partner for a development deal. Normally Felix makes all the
decisions on a project himself, but this time they split the duties
between them. Something went wrong on the project and a couple of
workmen were killed. Felix and his partner were charged with
manslaughter or criminal negligence or something like that—and they
went to prison," she said, and hastily added, "but he was
pardoned later."

That corresponded to the information Laura had gotten
from the New Orleans reporter: the charge had been manslaughter, they
had both been sentenced to prison, and Felix had later been pardoned.