The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (29 page)

Kane got up and went around the table to where Missy
was sitting with her hands still partially covering her face. Missy
let Kane help her up . . . the woman's strength was comforting. As
they walked to the door, Sloan said, "When you're at the
hospital, be sure to have them do a pregnancy test."

His words startled Missy. "Why?" she said,
pulling away slightly from the policewoman.

There was sympathy in Sloan's voice. "Because
the lab man tells me if that ovulation test is accurate you're
fertile today, and there's a good chance this attack may result in
your getting pregnant——"

Missy screamed. And this time it was no act.
 
 

CHAPTER 26

PHILADELPHIA IN the morning had never so glistened or
sparkled for Laura as it did when she and Felix drove across the Walt
Whitman Bridge together.

The rain was gone, the day was new and she was in
love. For her, nothing could be better, and not even the heavy
rush-hour traffic streaming in from South Jersey could dampen her
feelings.

Several times during the trip from Cape May she had
reached over just to touch him, to reassure herself that he was
there, that it was real, what had happened, and each time he had
rewarded her with a smile that seemed to light the depths of her. She
was thinking how good it had felt when he had awakened her in the
middle of the night and made love to her again. She didn't just
welcome his desire, it was like feeling reborn. A man saying she was
a woman in the way that really counted . . .

When they had gotten up near dawn to return to
Philly, she had gladly agreed when he insisted that she leave her car
behind and go back with him. She had only half-listened when he said
that he would have her car picked up and brought back later in the
day. Who cared? What was important was that they spend as much time
together as possible. On the ride back they had stopped for coffee at
a rest stop on the Garden State Parkway, and she watched as though he
was performing magic as he tore "trucker's holes" in the
plastic lids of the cups so they could sip without slopping. It was
delicious; his every move pleased her . . . But after a while she
couldn't resist asking him about Missy and what in the world had
happened. He wasn't too anxious to talk about it, not, he said,
because anything had happened between him and Missy . . . it had not
. . . but because it had all been so unexpected and, in a way, sad.
She was so set on this pregnancy business, but it really didn't seem
to have anything to do with him—or rather he was just, he felt, a
sort of object in her plan . . . as though he was a substitute for
somebody else. But when she had gotten abusive, he had decided enough
was enough and he had gotten out of there.

"And you know," he said, "the whole
business of Cynthia and me breaking up over not having children was
really only part of the story. Eventually I'd probably have gone
along, if we'd stayed together. But what really tore it was prison .
. . She just couldn't handle that, not that I blame her . . . Anyway,
children aren't my top priority right now; the right woman is, and
I've found her."

As they approached the toll booth on the Walt Whitman
she settled back, smiling to herself, feeling almost guilty about how
happy she was, even willing to forgive Missy for all her little
tricks . . . Once through the toll booth she noticed he had ignored
the exit for her house and was going on toward Center City.

"Hey, mister, what are you doing—kidnapping
me?"

"That's right, I'm taking you to my apartment
where I plan to do unspeakable things to you, providing I don't do
them before we get there."

"Whatever you say, I can hardly wait." She
meant it.

"Well, once we get to my place I'm going to
change out of these work clothes and call my lawyer, and then I'm
going to drop you off and try to take care of this business about Cyn
. . . Meanwhile I want you to take a hot bath and get a few hours of
sack time. You must be bushed. It also won't kill you to take a day
off. That's one of the reasons I wanted you to leave your car behind.
I figure without it you'll maybe listen to me."

Laura protested but Felix wouldn't budge.

"I don't have to be a doctor to see how tired
your eyes look. I'm not going to have you killing yourself with
exhaustion—specially now that I've got a lifetime investment in
you."

How nice to have someone care, Laura thought. "All
right, you win, I'll do it, but on one condition. As soon as it's
over you'll come to my place and tell me everything that happened."

He hesitated. "Is that because of us, or because
you're a reporter?"

She answered truthfully. "For both reasons."

"Good," he said. "It's a deal."

They took the Thirtieth Street exit from the
Expressway, made a right on Chestnut. Across Market, Laura could see
the imposing columns of the entrance to the train station. Mostly in
the past she had just hurried past them to catch a train to New York
or Washington to interview someone. Now she saw them. Being with
Felix made all her senses come more alive . . .

At Nineteenth they made a right and drove the short
distance to Rittenhouse Square, where a fair with brightly colored
booths was going on for the benefit of Graduate Hospital, and with
the break in the weather business seemed brisk.

Felix stopped in front of the Excelsior, his
apartment building, and left the motor running as he got out and went
around to open the door for Laura. At her unspoken question he told
her the doorman would put it in the garage—

But suddenly two men had come up to them, men with
red tough faces. Angry faces, the kind you saw in brawls in the upper
decks at Eagles games. Each wore a sport coat and a tie, and neither
looked comfortable in his get-up. They quickly closed in.

Laura looked at Felix. His face was very white.

"You Felix Ducroit?"

When Felix nodded, one of them showed a badge.
"You're under arrest."

They handcuffed him, and one of the officers read him
his rights. Laura was shocked . . . she knew that Sloan suspected
Felix but this was too much . . .

"What are you arresting him for? He hasn't done
anything."

At first everyone, including Felix, ignored her. Then
Felix turned to her, his eyes cold, questioning, but not saying a
word. He didn't have to. She could read in that look what he was
thinking, and it terrified her.

"Darling, believe me, I didn't know . . . I'll
get your attorney. Just tell me who it is, we'll get you out—"

"I'll take care of it myself. You've done
enough." He turned and went with the detectives to their car
parked at the corner. Laura watched them go, then realized that she
had no car. Hers was still in Cape May.

Throughout all this, the
Excelsior's usually omnipresent doorman had stayed inside the
building. Now that the police were gone he was coming out to move
Felix's car. Laura stopped him with an upraised hand. ”Never mind.
I'll take care of it," she said as she went around to the
driver's side of the Jaguar.

* * *

The car responded unlike anything she had ever
driven, but as she sped across town toward the Roundhouse at Eighth
she barely noticed, she was so furious at Sloan for ordering Felix's
arrest.

At police headquarters Sloan kept her waiting for a
good half hour. When she finally did see him, he had a big smile on
his face and before she could say any of the things on her mind he
was saying, "We've got him," and smacking his fist into his
palm. "We've got him dead to rights."

"What do you mean, we've got him?"
 
"I mean Felix Ducroit. Last night he
raped another Center City woman, only this time she lived to tell the
tale and she just identified him from the lineup. He's our man, all
right. I wanted to tell you before we started the interrogation. He
already has some high-priced legal talent in there with him but it's
not going to do any good . .

Laura shook her head. "No, he couldn't have. He
was with me last night—all night."

Now Sloan was paying attention to her, and his voice
had become very quiet. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, last night Felix Ducroit and I were
together—spent the night together in Cape May. So it couldn't have
been him . . . Your victim is wrong. What's her name? We've got to
convince her that she's made a mistake. People do that all the time,
right?"

The news obviously did not set well with Sloan. "I'm
not allowed to release the name of a rape victim . . . but you say
all night. From what time to what time?"

She told him and his face relaxed. ”Laura, it
happened earlier in the evening. Before you were together."

"You're wrong, it's not possible—"

"Why not?"

Laura felt herself blush but looked at him squarely.
"Because he made love to me—twice—last night."

"Laura, don't be naive," Sloan said and
left her standing there alone . . .

The next hour seemed like twenty-four as Laura paced
and smoked in the hallway. Finally two men emerged from the
interrogation room. Laura recognized one of them from charity
functions they had both attended—Coleman Green, the city's top
criminal lawyer. Obviously the high-priced legal talent Sloan had
mentioned.

When he turned to her she could see the weariness in
his eyes.

"How . . . how is it going in there?"

"Laura, this isn't the time to talk about it.
We'll issue a statement later, and I promise we won't leave out the
Globe when we do."

Decision time. She could either be a reporter, or she
could be Felix's . . . woman, girl friend, lover, whatever . . . She
didn't hesitate.

"Coleman, wait," she said, hurried after
him, and told him everything about her relationship with Felix.

"Whoa, whoa," he said. "Slow down. I
hear what you're saying. Join us for coffee."

"Coffee? Why the delay?"

"His bail hearing."

"Explain that exactly," she said, hurrying
to keep up.

"It means that the district attorney thinks he
has enough evidence to prosecute." As they walked through the
corridors of the round building he would not say any more, except to
introduce the man with him as Felix's corporate attorney. But once
they were having coffee at a table safely out of earshot of any
eavesdropper, he began to explain in a low voice the true seriousness
of the situation.
 
"The
charges he's been brought up on right now are rape and attempted
murder. He's accused of handcuffing a Center City woman last
night—Society Hill, in fact—raping her and then trying to choke
her to death—"

"I know all that, George Sloan already told me,
and I know the implications—that they're also going to try to
prosecute him for the rape and murder of two South Philly teenagers
and his ex-wife. A one-man crime wave. What I want to know is who is
this woman, and why is she accusing Felix of something he hasn't
done?"

"The one part I can tell you, but not the other.
Her name is Missy Wakefield."

Laura's face froze.

"Do you know her?"

"Yes, I know her." And then she proceeded
to tell them the story of Felix's scene with Missy over her sudden
overwhelming desire to get pregnant.

Coleman Green listened without interruption until she
finished, then said, "Yes, I heard the story. Felix has already
given it to us, and normally it would go a long way toward knocking
the rape charge out, if it was of and by itself. But not this time.
What they've got is a three-point case. They've got the testimony of
the officers who answered the call. Listen to what they found . . .
Miss Wakefield nude, her hands handcuffed behind her back, a thin
steel chain around her neck. She tells them she's been raped by Felix
Ducroit. When he's brought in and shown to her in a lineup she
immediately picks him out and identifies him. Next, the method used
in the attack is identical to the one used in three other attacks,
including the murder of Cynthia Ducroit, Felix's ex-wife, only a day
earlier. The handcuffs, the chain—all identical, and none of these
details were released to the press. You know that. You wrote the
story. Only the killer could know these details, and they tie Felix
in to the other cases. Even if Wakefield came forward now and said it
wasn't rape, that they were just playing around and it got out of
hand, Felix would still be tied in to the other deaths by the unique
method."

"Oh God . . ."

"It gets worse. At the hospital they found
bruises on Miss Wakefield's neck from the chain, consistent with the
kind of bruises that would result from someone trying to strangle
her. Just as she said. And now the third point. Sperm found in her
vagina was immediately tested for the ABH factors that determine a
person's blood type. About eighty percent secrete these factors into
all their bodily fluids—"

"Yes, yes, I know about that. Lieutenant Sloan
told me about it, secretors and non-secretors. What did they find?"

"They found a secretor with blood type O. The
same as in the other three cases."