West Palm: The Complete Novel (12 page)

PART THREE

Bloody Valentine

T
he area had been secured with yellow tape when Ingersoll and his team of homicide detectives arrived and scribbled their names on the clipboard held by Officer Gomez.

Though the sun hadn't set, an evening breeze was blowing gently through the alleys that led to the abandoned old houses. Paved long ago, the tarmac had crumbled and grass had reclaimed the area. Under other circumstances, it might've been pretty, a rural relic tucked away just west of Dixie between 10th and 11th Street.

Gomez had been drawn to the site by the unusual number of vultures circling overhead. The birds had been territorial over their find, and Gomez bore the visible results on his uniform.

“You ever been puked on by a vulture?” he asked Ingersoll. “This is what happens when you get between them and their lunch.” He lifted his gaze from his puked-on uniform to the two or three stubborn birds still circling overhead. “Must be some kind of defense mechanism they've evolved.”

“Thank you, Charles Darwin,” said Ingersoll. His eyes moved toward a square of yellow between the two abandoned houses. “You covered the body with a blanket? You know how bad that is for trace evidence.”

“The chick wasn't wearing any clothes. What were we supposed to do?”

More official cars and vans arrived, attracting people from the neighborhood, including kids on bicycles.

“I take it no witnesses have come forward.”

“None.”

Ingersoll turned to his detectives. “Question the bystanders and knock on doors.”

The civilian forensic team was putting screens around the body, after which they carefully removed the blanket covering it.

Ingersoll picked his way toward the screens and stepped inside. The naked figure lay on the grass, looking blindly at the sky.

A camera flashed.

The young woman's throat was torn apart from where the vultures had been feeding, and her eyes were eaten out. Ingersoll glanced up at the circling birds. “They don't waste any time, do they?”

“Fast food,” said the photographer.

Ingersoll crouched beside her. On the grass adjacent to her head was a splattered length of white lace. “It looks like the killer draped the lace across her face, and the vultures pulled it off.”

The woman's hands were laid over each other on her chest as if in peaceful prayer. Her body was covered with more than just blood and bird shit.

“Rice,” said the photographer.

“A bad wedding,” said Ingersoll, getting to his feet.

By the time Investigator Singh arrived in his short-sleeved polo bearing the logo of the County Medical Examiner's Office, Ingersoll had a pretty clear idea of what had happened. “He killed her in her car”—Ingersoll gestured toward the victim's car—“and then he carried her here. Then it looks like he stripped her and conducted his wedding ceremony.”

“He fucked her after she was dead?” asked Singh, putting on his gloves.

“You tell me.”

Singh knelt to examine the corpse and the ground surrounding it. “The pathologist will know when he examines her more thoroughly, but the depression in the grass is so faint it's unlikely another body was on top of her. Just birds.”

“So why'd he strip her?”

“Why did he do any of it?”

As the photographer recorded Singh's examination, an alley cat came slinking in between the screens.

“Fuck off, whiskers,” snapped Singh and the cat scurried away.

“I don't see any other wounds,” said Ingersoll. “Just the throat.”

“That's all it took.”

“Any idea how long she's been dead?”

Singh indicated the flies buzzing around her. “No more than two hours.”

“Could be worse.”

“Not for her,” muttered Singh.

“Anything else you can tell me about her?”

“No needle marks, no wasting. I have a feeling she was an upright citizen.” He beckoned toward the removal service men with their sheet and body bag. In their long-sleeved shirts and ties, dress pants and shoes, all the removers needed were suit jackets to pass for undertakers.

As they lifted the young woman from the ground, Ingersoll asked, “What's that on her back?” A snake looked back at him.

Down in Lake Worth, Smoker had been gathering evidence against the owners of a body shop who enhanced the damage to vehicles by smashing the shit out of them before photographing them for insurance purposes.

Now he was heading home, but before he reached Old Northwood he saw cop cars and vans parked on the west side of Dixie. Since he considered everything north of Banyan his neighborhood, he felt entitled to pull in alongside them.

The press was just leaving as he walked toward the cordoned-off crime scene. He noticed a police dog sniffing along beside its handler. A K9 had been fatally shot a month ago in a confrontation outside McDonald's; when the shooter turned to fire at the cop, the dog leapt up to take the bullet himself; a photo of the animal now hung in the lobby of the West Palm Beach police station, in the gallery of fallen officers on their last watch. Whenever Smoker stopped by the station house he paid his respects to the wall of the fallen, some of whom he'd known personally; he hadn't known the dog, but the look in its eyes was the look in the eyes of every K9:
I'll die for you
.

Some distance away he saw Ingersoll's head above the forensic screens.

“Keep back,” said Officer Gomez.

Smoker eyed Gomez's puked-on uniform. “I see you've been shit on in the line of duty.”

“Just step back, Smoker.”

Smoker dutifully took a couple of steps backward.

He recognized the investigator from the Medical Examiner's Office talking to Ingersoll, but he couldn't hear what they were saying, or what they were staring at inside the screens.

What they were staring at was the rice still remaining where the body had been. “Let's follow the trail of the wedding party,” suggested Singh.

The rice led Singh and Ingersoll to the victim's car, where a technician was collecting samples. He glanced up at them. “All the blood's on the driver's side, so she was in the driver's seat when she got sliced.”

The backseat was filled with grocery bags.

Singh and Ingersoll walked around to the open trunk. Inside were stacks of lace curtains, with receipts from Goodwill, Salvation Army, Community Thrift.

“This is what gets to me,” said Ingersoll.

“Curtains?” Singh asked.

“She was going to do something with them, maybe redecorate her apartment. Obviously she didn't have much money because she shopped at the Salvation Army, but she was still trying to brighten up her life.”

The two men approached the barricade, and Singh nodded to Gomez. “I need your uniform.”

“What the hell for?”

“The contents of a vulture's stomach are highly toxic. It will have to be examined. You'll need to be examined too.”

Gomez glared down at his uniform. “Another perfect day in West Palm.”

“This has never happened to you before?”

“You think I'm a magnet for vultures? No, and it sure as hell isn't going to happen again.”

“The bite of an alligator and the regurgitated material of a vulture are two of the most serious obstacles to police promotion in Florida.”

Gomez caught Ingersoll trying not to laugh, and realized Singh was pulling his chain. “Thanks a lot, you prick.”

“Don't mention it. I always like to put my subjects at their ease.”

“Lucky for them they're already dead.”

It wasn't until Singh left that Ingersoll finally acknowledged Smoker. “You were on your way home and you just couldn't resist, is that it?”

“Murder on my doorstep tends to draw my attention.”

“As long as you're here . . .” Ingersoll led him away from the crime scene. “I hate to jump to conclusions, but the guy who did your amazon? The one with the snake bracelets. This could be his work. Young woman laid out naked on the grass with her throat slit from ear to ear. In Singh's opinion, she wasn't raped. And she's got a snake tattoo.”

Smoker wanted to shout,
Of course it's his work,
but since he had no way of proving it, he merely said, “There goes the neighborhood.”

Ingersoll pointed to the area between the two old houses where the body had been. “What strikes you first?”

“The killer took a big chance, but he wanted her to be discovered.”

“When his handiwork was fresh. I usually find them spread-eagle, or worse. This one's legs were closed, her hands were crossed in prayer, there was a white lace veil covering her face as if she were a bride, and he sprinkled her with rice.”

“Christ,” said Smoker. “He anointed her.”

“Come again?”

“My perp told the real estate lady at Seafarers Landing he was anointed.”

“So he's some kind of fucked-up messiah?”

“The amazon said when he came at her with his knife, his expression was loving. That is a direct quote.”

“Well, I hope it's the same guy, because I'd hate to think there are two loving messiahs running loose.”

“I'll get you the surveillance tape from Seafarers Landing. And you should interview the real estate lady. She showed him an apartment, though he was really there to track down the amazon.”

“Give me everything you can, and I'll reciprocate.” Ingersoll was moving toward his car. “I've got to get back to the station. If Singh is right and our victim was a sober citizen, the pressure from the media is going to be industrial strength.”

S
moker noticed a peephole had been installed in the front door. He imagined Tara's pale blue eye with its dark circle around the iris staring out at him.

She opened the door.

“Do you like rutabaga?” asked the old broad behind her.

“I knew I forgot something. Next time I'll remember.”

“Are you my husband?”

“I wish I was.”

They exchanged a few more greetings through parallel universes, and the old broad trundled off to the kitchen, possibly to root around for rutabagas.

Tara preceded him toward the living room. He began his investigations from the top, starting with the scarf of betrayal, down to naked shoulders revealed by the straps of her blue tank top, a nice trim waist, and an ass in shorts. I should be writing a fashion column for the
Palm Beach Post,
he thought
.
He finished off his fashion essay by noting long legs and bare feet.
This season,
he wrote,
bare feet add zest to the runway presentation into the living room.

But the living room had undergone a transformation. It was now considerably larger than last time. “What happened to Santa?”

“Gone back to the North Pole. He asked me to go with him, but I told him I had unfinished business here.” What she didn't add was that from the moment she'd recognized Smoker through the peephole her heart had shocked her with its performance.

He was finding it harder by the minute to ignore his unprofessional feelings and get on with the job at hand. “A young woman was killed a few hours ago. The killer might be the guy who attacked you.”

He watched the welcome leave her face. They were back to the way it was at the beginning. Their connection was violence.

“Where did it happen?”

“Too close for comfort. Never, never go out alone. I know house arrest isn't much fun.”

She felt her lips trembling and turned away. “Luckily there's a cure close at hand,” she said, walking toward one of the remaining antique bars, an expensive-looking mahogany job with a brass foot rail. “What'll you have?”

“Anything. Just don't let me buy the bar.”

He watched her squeeze a lemon, which stopped her hands from shaking. Sailor's hands, basketball player's hands. He thought they were beautiful hands.

She was thinking about arms, and how she wished his were around her. “Why do you think it might be the same guy?”

“You said he attacked you with love in his eyes.”

“What's the connection?”

“After he cut her throat, he put a white veil over her face and sprinkled her with rice.”

“Rice?”

“Like a wedding.”

She had a vision of the black mourning locket in her bedroom, and it was her own face inside it. “I was supposed to be one of his brides.”

“Fair assumption.”

The mask of courage with which she'd greeted him at the door had slipped, and something naked and vulnerable took its place, so vulnerable that he lowered his gaze to give her time to pull the mask back on. Staring at the red snakes encircling her wrists, he said, “She had a snake tattooed on her back. Just a coincidence probably. But let's duly note it.”

She handed him a cold whiskey sour, but they didn't raise their glasses for a toast. What could they toast today? Death?

She took a big swallow, letting the icy fire burn its way through her fears. She realized that like her attacker, she was confusing murder with love, because she couldn't tell if what she felt for Smoker came from her heart or her fear.

“Maybe this murder satisfied him,” he said. “Maybe he's done.”

“You wouldn't be here if you believed that.”

“Yeah, but now the game has changed. Now he's killed someone. Now a lot of people are looking for him, and a lot of public money's being spent. And speaking of money, Zaratzian will give you round-the-clock protection.”

“Zaratzian's doing enough.”

“He's happy to do more. It wouldn't hurt.”

“I can't turn Matthew's house into an armed camp. He does business here.”

“If you stayed at a hotel, we could give you security without interfering with Matthew's lifestyle.”

“I don't want to be alone in a hotel room. Matthew's great company. I spend the evenings laughing in spite of everything.”

“It's your call.”

“But you understand?”

“Sure I do. Matthew's still giving you transfusions.”

They finished their drinks in silence while she thought, Smoker, if you offered to stand guard at my hotel room, I'd say,
Let's go.
“Who was the girl he killed?”

“I don't know yet. But Ingersoll thought she was a sober citizen.”

“I don't feel like being a sober citizen at the moment. What about you?”

“Me neither,” he agreed, and she squeezed more lemons.

When the second round of icy fire lit her up inside, she said, “I wish I could've gotten the knife away from him and stuck it through his heart.”

“I'll drink to that.” Smoker clicked his glass against hers.

“Because that girl would be alive today.”

Faith rushed past them toward the door before either of them heard the key in the lock.

“There's nothing wrong with her hearing,” observed Smoker.

At the door Matthew was saying, “Yes, Mother, I love rutabaga.”

He joined them at the bar. “Our favorite private eye. Let me look around. I think I might have a Maltese falcon somewhere in my collection.”

“The stuff that dreams are made of,” Smoker said.

“What are you two drinking?”

“Whiskey sours.”

“Yum yum.” He turned back to Smoker. “Making any progress?”

“It's the maniac who's making progress,” answered Tara. “He just killed a woman.” She poured the rest of the mixture through a strainer into a glass for Matthew. “He put a veil over her face and sprinkled her with rice.”

Matthew took the glass from her, sipped, and said, “Let me see his photograph again.”

She brought up the picture in her phone and handed it over. “The photo hasn't changed.”

“Oh, but it has,” he said.

Smoker knew what he meant. Details had been added to their knowledge of this face, and as a result another dimension emerged. This wasn't just a brutal killer, but one with an elaborate fantasy life.

Tara reached for her phone and shut it off. “I feel like I'm letting him out of the box if I leave it on too long.”

Matthew eyed her over his drink. “That's not included in the plan you subscribe to, unless Verizon has radically upgraded their service.”

Smoker left the house bearing a vintage green glass cocktail shaker shaped like a barbell. It had only cost him $325.

He got into his car, wondering how long this male menopause stuff was supposed to last.