Two Graves (A Kesle City Homicide Novel) (30 page)

Degget smiled. After watching Beverly at the bar for a couple hours, Degget knew exactly what the man was looking for. A shopping trip for some different clothes, three nights of waiting for Beverly to show at the bar again and a few drinks was all it had taken to get invited back to the man’s condo. Unfortunately, Degget wasn’t able to get the code to the alarm. Beverly was very careful about that. But there were other ways to get information.

Relaxing under the other man’s caress, Degget looked around the large bedroom. “From the looks of this place, I’m afraid I might not be in your class. What do you do for a living?”

“Don’t let this place fool you,” Beverly laughed. “I didn’t buy this.”

“Is it just a lease?”

“No,” Beverly answered, a sadness creeping into his eyes. “I own it. I just didn’t buy it as such. I was in a relationship for a couple years. I thought he was the one, you know. We had even been talking about marriage, the whole bit. He was a doctor. Nip and tucker. I’m sure you have seen plenty of his work but you’d never know it, if you know what I mean. We lived here.”

“Did he die?”

“No, not that I don’t sometimes wish it. Oh, that sounds awful doesn’t it? But the bitch went back to his wife. I mean, he just says one day that he doesn’t think he is really gay. Two years of some of the best sex I have ever had and he suddenly thinks he’s straight? I hope his wife leaves him for one of his bimbo breast jobs. Serve him right.”

“And what, he just gave you the condo?”

“Ain’t guilt a wonderful thing? I got the condo and a sweet little ride – a hot red Lexus IS 250 – all free and clear. He even paid the taxes and the insurance for a year. He broke my heart but I’m getting over it,” Beverly said with a smirk. “And you are just what the doctor ordered.”

An hour later, a very satisfied Beverly was laying next Degget. Degget had decided that Beverly wasn’t the leak. All that extra spending had been accounted for. Blackmail? Maybe but it didn’t seem likely. Beverly was too easy taking Degget home. A victim of blackmail would be a little more gun shy than this. “You never said what you did for a living,” Degget said.

“I work for the cops,” Beverly said sleepily.

“You’re a cop?”

“No, I’m the personal assistant for Inspector Flem with the SOCU. The Special Organized Crime Unit.”

“Wow,” Degget said, sounding very excited. He started to caress Beverly’s inner thigh, who reacted despite the past hour’s activities. “That must be so exciting. I’ve seen Flem on the news. He’s like Elliot Ness. I heard he might even be the next Commissioner.”

“Trust me, he’s no Elliot Ness. He’s a bloated egotistical jerk who has no personal skills but is a hell of a political player.”

“You don’t like him?”

“Not in the least but the job pays and it’s pretty easy for the most. Except for the exulted one, nobody really bothers me. Actually they treat me pretty well because they know that I grease the wheels. Not to mention a few of them look pretty good, for cops anyway.”

“You don’t like cops?”

“They’re OK to look at but pretty boring between the sheets.”

Degget massaged higher on Beverly’s thigh, adding pressure, eliciting a moan from Beverly.

“And you don’t like Flem? The Mayor makes him sound like a one man police force.”

“The Mayor is only interested in votes,” Beverly said, sucking in his breath when Degget hit a tender spot. “Flem knows politics. Just look at the convictions. You’ll see the pattern.”

Degget started running his tongue over Beverly’s chest in circles that promised to move lower on the man’s body. “Patterns?”

“Who gets arrested and when,” Beverly explained dreamily. “Even before SOCU, Flem played the game and brought in the big, flashy arrests. Flem always knew how to make sure his arrests got noticed.”

“But hasn’t he sworn to get Angelino? I saw that on the news.”

“Oh sure, he talks a lot but I think he doesn’t really want to arrest him. If he arrests his arch nemesis, where will he go from there? I swear he has pulled guys away from investigations just to keep the game going. The other week, he went up onside of me and down the other because he said I screwed up some assignments. I had to just sit there and take it but he was the one that messed it all up. And the one that got missed was a move against one of Angelino’s operations. Maybe it’s just my imagination ‘cause the guy really is an obnoxious bore. Or maybe he is just saving the big bust for right before he gets named Commissioner.”

Degget almost stopped his ministrations on Beverly as he thought about what the man was saying. Arrest records, patterns, of course. Excited, his mind whirling with the possibilities, he bit down hard. Beverly moaned and arched his back, his legs sliding over against Degget.

“Hmmm, you feel like you are getting excited yourself. God I might have to take the day off tomorrow if you keep this up.”

As he dealt with the client on the phone, Bert Haynes kept glancing back at the front page of The
Daily
. He normally ignored the Slasher. The case revolted him and he just wasn’t interested. Most days, he just skimmed the articles, often not even the entire article, and continued on to the sports page.

Today was different.

Haynes stared hard at the picture of the latest victim, Linda Forrest. As he looked at the picture, he played the name over in his mind. No matter how he tried to associate the name, he couldn’t recognize it. Still, there was something about the girl’s face. There was a memory, tantalizingly close but elusive.

The picture in the newspaper was a studio shot. Maybe the photographer was a client? But that didn’t feel right. He had never been near the University. He had often been asked to guest lecture in the computer classes but his stutter always got in the way. The classes weren’t long enough for a lecture from him. So, if not the University, where?

He read the article for the tenth time. He didn’t recognize the girl’s address. Her father was a plumber. Being handy, he had never needed a plumber. Her mother was a housewife. Not likely he would know her. None of them were customers, he had checked.

Why did her face bother him so?

His phone rang again and he set the paper aside. While he tried to concentrate on the telephone call, his eyes kept straying to the picture.

Sports? Maybe she was an athlete? Something nagged at the back of his brain. Sports. Basketball, track, something. He followed the University sports scene but more the men’s teams.

“I don’t s...s...see why not,” Haynes said. He wished this idiot would just get to the point and ring off. Everyday he hated the phone more and more. If only he could rid himself of his stutter, he could knock an hour a day off his phone time. “Just let me check my calendar.”

Haynes spun in his chair and looked at his computer screen. Family pictures flashed across the screen saver and he saw his daughter’s graduation photo. As he stared, open mouthed, at the screen, he didn’t even hear the customer on the telephone. He had difficulty breathing and goose bumps broke out over his body. The phone almost slipped out of his hands when he slammed it down on the receiver – without saying another word to the puzzled customer.

“A...A...Anne, g...g...g, g...get in here!”

He looked from the screen to the newspaper and back again. The picture changed to a scene from a family vacation. He swore, barely conscious that the string of swear words didn’t come out in a stutter.

When Anne entered the office, he was already bent over his computer console. Seeing his pale, sweaty face, she ran to his side. “Bert? Are you all right?”

“I…I….n...n…need…”

He stopped talking, frustrated by the stutter. He took a deep breath and tried again but the words tangled. Anne’s face went from puzzled to concerned. Normally, he never stuttered around her. Finally, he picked up a pad of paper and began to write out his instructions.

Anne took the torn sheet from his hand and read it over. She looked at him again, worried and confused. “This is what you want? Customer records? You sure you’re all right, Bert?”

Haynes nodded and pointed to the door. She shrugged and left the office. Stupidest thing she ever saw. Customer receipts from a couple months ago? He was acting like the end of the world.

Haynes bent over the computer again, his fingers flying over the keyboard. He loved his computer because he could type. He didn’t stutter when he typed.

Except today.

Today, his hands were shaking as he tried to call up the correct pictures.

*

“I c...c...called s…s…six times but nobody ever c...c...came around to s...s...see me. I really need to talk to s...s...someone.”

“If you could just have a seat, a detective will be with you as soon as possible,” the uniformed cop said. Haynes recognized the look. The cop probably dealt with nut cases all day and here he stood, not even able to get a sentence out.

Resigned, Haynes sat down between two old women.

Haynes was angry, excited and frightened. A deadly combination when it came to his stutter. Today was a day for Cs and Ss. Every time he hit a hard C or an S, the stutter reared up and clobbered him.

He had tried the telephone. He had called as soon as the computer had spit out the pictures and he compared them online to back issues of the paper. Then, when he had received no reply, he called again several times for two days. Now, almost four days after he made his discover, he had decided to bring his story down in person.

He laid his briefcase across his knees and leaned forward. One of the women reached up and shoved him back in his chair. Unnoticed by him, the two women continued their discussion over top of him.

Both of them had the Slasher living next door to them. They both had the
proof
that was going to put him away.

Haynes looked around the large waiting room at the collection of people. He realized what a mammoth task the police had to try and cull through all the assorted weirdoes and nutcases to find the genuine tips from concerned, normal citizens. People like him.

People who stuttered every time they said a hard C or an S.

Haynes got up and wandered across the room to sit beside a man dressed in a three piece suit. All his speech teachers had drilled into him that he must not avoid conversations. If the stuttering got bad, he had to dive right in and try to overcome the difficult words. Concentrating, he addressed the businessman beside him.

“Lot’s of people here. Guess everybody knows the murderer,” Haynes said, choosing his words carefully.

“I’m here to turn myself in,” the businessman said, smiling. He pulled his coat open to reveal a long butcher’s knife. Haynes smiled back and got up to sit in one of the few isolated seats.

*

“Who’s next?” the patrolman asked, stretching and working the kinks out of his neck. His “ticket” to a gold shield was to interview the assorted citizens, idiots and nutcases that came into the Task Force. At last estimate, the Task Force was receiving three hundred tips a day. Most, thank St. Michael, came in over the phone. The walkins were the worst. Most of them were nuts, some were just mistaken, and some might, just might, have a genuine clue that would break the case. He held out for them.

“There are two old broads who both say they live next to Slasher. The guy in the three piece suit wants to confess. The lady with the baby, she thinks it’s her husband. They just got divorced and he’s trying for custody of the kid. There are six who saw his car.”

“Do we know what he drives?”

“Rumor is a red Chev. Least, I think it’s a rumor.”

“I’ll check next time I’m in the room. What about the guy with the briefcase?”

“He says that the Slasher came to him to get pictures made of the victims.”

“What the hell?”

“Hey, that’s what the guy said. He’s called us a couple times, apparently. He’s real serious, that dude.”

“I’ll take that one. At least it is original.”

“Got a stutter. Take you forever.”

“Good, then I won’t get the old broads. Ever notice how bad those old ones smell?”

“Suit yourself. Guy’s name is Haynes.”

The officer stepped around the desk. “Mr. Haynes? Could you come this way please?”

*

Blaak was lounging back in his chair listening to the rabble around him. He was finished for the day, a thirteen and a half hour day.

Letting his mind drift, he keyed on the man being interviewed by one of the uniforms at a nearby desk. He had caught a real winner this time. This witness sounded like an idiot. Blaak tried to catch his eye but the officer was focused on the stutterer. Blaak knew a feigned look of interest; this was serious.

Blaak let the rest of the din around him fade into background, a talent acquired from surveillance work, and focused on the stutterer. He was having a real time of it but Blaak soon realized that the man was coherent, even educated. Not that there weren’t many educated nuts but...

The guy was talking about school pictures. Blaak listened intently, the mention of a school setting off warning flares. The guy had done something to school pictures. He was some kind of computer expert and could age photographs. He used a computer, using the same process they did for the missing kid photos.

Blaak stood up so quickly, he knocked his chair over.

Blaak knocked lightly on the door frame. “L-T?”

Mann looked up, setting his pen down and rubbed his eyes. “Ya, Blaak? What you got?”

“Would you be pissed if I brought you one from left field, sir? Like we are talking maybe way down by the third base foul line.”

Mann caught the excitement in Blaak’s voice. The big man was holding something back, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. Mann let Blaak play it the way he wanted. “You got something?”

“I think I do. Actually, one of the uniforms was kinda there first. I just jumped at it. An interview from a walk-in. Guy’s name is Haynes, sir.” Blaak lowered his voice. “This Haynes, he stutters like a worn out carb. Sounds like he’s a bit shy of a load, know what I mean? He’s not though. Just sounds like it. Guy’s some computer genius. Anyhow, just thought I’d warn you, sir.”