Читать книгу Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 1–3: The Hundredth Man, The Death Collectors, The Broken Souls - J. Kerley A. - Страница 34

The back room of Mr. Cutter’s house was always safe and quiet, his second-favorite place in the world. The first was the boat, always the boat. Though the boat from his childhood looked different from the boat of today, they were the same. The universe pulled things away from you, spun them in circles, maybe changed their outsides, then set them in your path again.

Like his boat. Like Mama.

He felt like giggling. He rolled the chair forward and pressed controls, saw Mama talking lies to him, heard the slow and precise tone she loved. Then, with a few motions of his hand, he made her eat her words, suck them back into her head. He arranged the words however he wanted. Mama’s head moved toward him. He made it stop, then made it go backward. He would have loved to have spun her head on its lovely, hateful neck.

“Boston,” he said. Then again, stretching out the word: “Bosssston.” It sounded right. He tried Kokomo, the same way, short, then long. He wrote the words on an index card, ready for use. This was hard work, here in the dark with the pictures. Listening, analyzing. The time spent tracking Boy-Man-Warrior was nothing compared to this.

Light and shadow, words and pictures. Mama and the Bad Girl.

This part of the project, when the Bad Girl was pleading, was the most difficult. He worked in increments—moments, syllables. He was careful not to make the entire picture appear at once, she was too strong. She could rearrange his insides and make him think so different, it was like he disappeared in one place and appeared in another.

Oh, damn. Like she was doing now. Singing.

Mr. Cutter closed his eyes and caught his breath. He forced his heart to stop its wild pounding. His hand had been fumbling for his belt but he checked himself.

Control.

Control.

He opened his eyes and his hands repositioned themselves above his work area. He made Mama suck her words back into her head, and like an anthracite sun sinking beneath a snow-white sea, she left Mr. Cutter to work through the night.

“Burlew has to think we’re threatening Terri, that she might break loose with whatever she’s holding back.” I looked around to make sure no one was listening. The detectives’ room was quiet, Naylor and Scott at a desk grinding out paperwork, Pendery whispering in his phone, talking to a snitch or one of his interchangeable pneumatic blondes. Everyone else was working the street or working on giving that impression.

Harry did devil’s advocate. “What if we’re wrong, she’s got nothing? Clean?”

“She smells like a kennel, Harry. You’ve said that a dozen times.”

Unless Terri had a friend who sucked wood pulp, Burlew and Losidor were tied together. The lines still disappeared around a blind corner, but ragged ends were showing. It was time to grab the nearest one, yank hard, and listen for what tumbled.

Harry said, “When we admit to working Nelson, Squill’s gonna blow a valve. Claim DDO maybe.”

Disobedience of a Direct Order meant a month without pay and generally preceded a downtumble in the department. It would spell the end of PSIT.

“I can wear this hat myself, Harry. It was me tossed Nelson’s place and called Friedman.”

Harry shook his head. “Huh-uh, bro. We are the Wright brothers, and this plane’s a two-seater. Time to put the vise to Burlew. Trouble is, we don’t know where the juice’s gonna squirt from. He’ll pop it and slop it.”

“Keep that umbrella handy.”

Harry went silent, found my eyes. “You know, don’t you, we’ll maybe squeeze Doc P as well. You ready for that?”

The morgue schedule had confirmed my worst fears: Clair took four days of vacation in May, three overlapping the days Nelson spent in Biloxi.

I nodded. “I’m ready.”

“No, you’re not,” Harry said. “But you’re as close as you’re gonna get.”

Squill’d shifted our daily meetings to 5:30. The grumblers said he did it to keep us from supper a bit longer. They were probably right. The usual crowd attended, including Burlew. He leaned against a wall, squeezing his hands together, either isometrics or he was congratulating himself. Harry shuffled pages, looked at Squill, and started.

“We’re pursuing a line of inquiry related to Nelson. We think this woman, Terri Losidor, knows more than she’s saying.”

I said, “We want to bring her in for questioning. She’s cool in her living room, but let’s make her feel like we’re crawling down her windpipe.”

Burlew stopped his squeezing. Squill half rose from his seat, his face a sudden scarlet. “Nelson? I told you to concentrate on Deschamps. No, I ordered you—”

I said, “The two vics aren’t hermetically sealed, Captain. Paths crossed in front of us and we tripped onto Nelson’s again.”

His voice was clenched, barely audible. “This came from that box crap, didn’t it. Lost papers or whatever?”

“No,” I said, revising the borders of truth. “This was new information presented in the course of the investigation.”

Squill’s eyes seared into mine. A vein pulsed blue in his pale forehead. Here it comes, I thought. Tossed off the case…

A chair squeaked like a wounded fiddle and all eyes turned to Wally Daller. He stopped swiveling his chair, laced his fingers behind his head. His rumpled jacket fell open, tie askew across his large belly. “Ah, hell, Captain. What’s it matter as long as we’re moving ahead. That’s the point, ain’t it? Solve the goddamn thing?”

Squill started to speak, but nothing came out. There was a long pause and heads started nodding. Grunts of assent. Rose Blankenship jumped in, probably as tired of watching us get beat up as we were of taking the shots. “If you think this Terri’s got a lead, I say haul her ass in here.”

Blasingame rapped the table with his knuckles. “Hell, yes. I’m sick of bumping my head on the wall.”

Hembree from Forensics said, “The scenes have been cleaner’n a nun’s whistle. You got somebody to squeeze, I say take the shot.”

“I’d love to have a search warrant for her place,” I said. Though there was nothing to justify it, I wanted to see Burlew’s reaction.

He stood as still as a man carved from stone, not even breathing.

“Can’t do that,” Tom Mason said. “Unless you got something you’re not telling about, Carson.”

“Working on it,” I said, implying we maybe had more without saying it, since we didn’t.

Rose said, “If we bring her in and she squeals for a lawyer, that’ll tell us something in itself.”

Heads nodded. The dynamic in the room slipped from Squill’s grasp and moved toward police work. I could have kissed Wally on his big pink brow. He looked at me and winked.

Wally, you sly dawg…

I kept the momentum going. “I don’t think she’s directly involved, I think it’s something peripheral, something to do with Nelson’s last days. She’s tough in her living room, but”—I gestured widely with my hands, meaning the whole place, sound and smell and flinty-eyed men and women walking around with large guns hanging off them—”we all know what a little ambience can do.”

Harry grabbed the reins. “Terri’s never had any brush with the law, probably never been in a place like this before. She’ll come in tough, be singing two minutes later.”

I stole a look at Burlew. His face was impassive. But I saw fear in those tiny eyes, and sweat crescents beneath his arms. Squill looked confused, like he was missing something important and didn’t know whether to bull forward or step back.

Sergeant Bertram Funk stuck his head into the room. “This the meeting on the headless murders?”

It gave Squill a chance to be officious. “We’re very busy here, Sergeant. What is it?”

Funk handed Squill a message. His lips moved as he read it. He stood. “It seems a severed head was found just off McDuffie Island. It’s on its way to the morgue and Dr. Peltier is standing by. This may have a bearing on the case, let’s see what the ME has to say. I want the regulars on the case at the morgue in one-half hour.”

Terri Losidor fell off the agenda for now. Burlew mumbled about an appointment and was gone before most of us were standing.

It took less than fifteen minutes for Burlew to pound on Terri Losidor’s door, run inside, and return moments later with an expandable file folder tucked under his arm. Terri slammed the door behind him. Burlew squirmed into his unmarked, jammed the folder under the seat, and left the blue smoke of burnt rubber in his wake.

“I got the feeling we’re about to get this hog pitted,” Harry said as we pulled out from behind a Dumpster in Terri’s parking lot, giving Burlew a block-long head start. “We’re gonna kill it and grill it.”

“Snark it and bark it,” I said, rising to the challenge. Harry looked at me like I’d come from the john with a saucer-sized wet spot on the front of my pants. “Hopeless,” he said, rolling his eyes.

Burlew drove straight to the morgue. He hadn’t done anything with the folder; still beneath his seat. Squill showed up a few minutes later and the pair went inside. Burlew walked lightly as he entered the morgue, like a burden was rising from his shoulders.

Harry dropped me out front and I headed through the door. Once inside, I turned and saw him pull beside Burlew’s car. Harry slipped out, a slim-jim tucked against his side.

The head on the autopsy table was in sad shape, dark flesh hanging like half-cured rubber cement. Clair gently plucked at it with shiny tools. Squill stood against the wall and held three overlapped masks to his nose. I figured this was the second or third time in his life he’d been in the morgue.

“Where the hell’s Nautilus?” Squill said, the masks muffling none of his irritation.

“He stopped in the can, Captain.”

Squill looked disgusted, but I couldn’t tell if it was from Harry’s tardiness or the stench of the putrifying head. Burlew was impassive, his jaws punishing a fresh scrap of paper.

“Definitely Peter Deschamps’s head,” Clair said, holding up an X-ray sheet. “Dental records clinch it.”

“Is there damage to the head, Doctor?” I asked.

She frowned. “It’s been here less than an hour, Ryder. I can say I’ve found a puncture in the parietal lobe, the size of a clean entry of a .22 or .25 bullet. No exit wound unless it exited an ear or nostril, which does happen, but is rare enough I’ll bet the slug’s inside.”

“Does it shake like a maraca?” Harry asked, coming through the door. The smell hit him and he went for his handkerchief. Harry winked at me through watering eyes. He’d copped the folder.

“No, Detective Nautilus, it does not.”

I said, “Other damage or abuse? I mean, given the time you’ve had to inspect it, Doctor Peltier? Signs of a beating, for instance.”

“I again stress we’re just getting started. But right now it appears the head was simply removed and discarded.”

“He won’t be happy when he finds the folder gone,” I ventured, in the front seat now, too adrenaline-charged to recline.

When nothing monumental had been revealed at the morgue, Squill dismissed the troops. Harry and I resumed our lag-back tracking of Burlew. We hung three quarters of a block back, keeping ample traffic between the vehicles. Harry said, “He’d jammed the stuff way under the seat. He won’t grab for it until he gets where he’s going. Home, judging by it.”

Burlew slowed, turned down the street he lived on. Tidy, midsize two-stories built in the fifties were shadowed by tall, mature trees. The lawns were well watered, verdant. A white-haired woman walked a glossy retriever. It was pretty enough to be a movie set, a Disney street. Until Harry had checked Burlew’s address, I figured he lived in some grimy ranch house in one of those cookie-cutter suburbs installed in the fifties. Or a cave.

Harry K-turned in a drive and we broke off before passing Burlew’s house. I said, “Pull off somewhere and let’s see what sort of fish we caught.”

We parked behind an elementary school two blocks away. I gloved my hands and dumped out a sheaf of papers and an eight-by-ten envelope. I picked through the papers and found a page torn from the personals section of the NewsBeat. I read it aloud.

“Gorgeous Man Wants A Loving Friend—SWM, twenty-two, bi, safe. Blue eyes, dark brown hair, very good looking and masculine, buff build, beautiful smile, can be mild or wild, traditional or experimental, loves to travel and is a great companion. Seeks older man, distinguished and generous…”

“Nelson’s ad,” Harry said. “Generous? That mean what I think, Cars? Put down some money ’fore you reach for the honey?”

I nodded and kept reading through a few more descriptives and a request for a photo.

Harry said, “Anything else in there, like Cutter’s ad? Or something from Losidor?”

I found another ad, very similar to the other, but aimed at women; they were both compelling ads and I figured Nelson, with a little training, could have been an ad copywriter.

But that was all that seemed to pertain to the cases. Nothing else stood out, like they were simply a wad of various forms clipped together for convenient storage. I set the papers aside and opened the eight-by-ten envelope.

“Pictures of Nelson, I’ll bet,” Harry said. “Smiling for the audience.”

A stack of photos and a wallet of negatives shook out of the envelope. I studied a photo. Another. Then riffled through them like playing cards.

“Shit,” I said, handing the photos to Harry. He glanced at several, then dropped them back in his lap.

“Bales of it and pails of it,” he agreed.