Don't Look Now (18 page)

Beep
.

‘Uh, hi. My name is Samantha Jaeger and I work at Allied Salon Products on West Forty-fourth Street, and you were in the other day and you were asking about mustaches and Mr Hendershott said that we hadn’t sold one in a really long time and while that is in fact true it is not exactly what you might call the truth. Call me.’

She left her number, hung up, grabbed a full breath, exhaling slowly. It had been relatively painless, she thought, this ‘notifying the proper authorities’.

‘See, Giacomo?’ she said to the cat. ‘If you just
do
things, it’s so much easier than stewin’ and stewin’ and stewin’ about them until your stomach gets all edgy and you can’t eat anything.’ She gently shook the rather portly cat. ‘Which has never been
our
problem, has it?’

She put the policeman’s card on the coffee table, walked into the kitchen and scanned the contents of her refrigerator. The same as yesterday, save for one less Diet Coke. She absently checked the cupboards, even though she knew there were no two things in the apartment that could be combined to make anything resembling a meal. Cocoa Puffs and evaporated milk. Hamburger Helper with absolutely nothing in the freezer to help. She ambled back to the living room, muted the goofy voice of Mr Howie Mandel, then dialed Domino’s Pizza, her third time in three days.

Which is one of the reasons why, when the buzzer rang about twenty-five minutes later, she didn’t ask who it was.

SERGEANT ROBERT DIETRICHT
and Sergeant Thomas Raposo were late for their 7.45 a.m. Monday briefing. The task-force started without them.

‘We’ve run the name Farrow through the computers, spelled just about every imaginable way. There’s sixteen Farrows in Cleveland. Ten Farohs. Three Faros,’ Paris said to the handful of detectives scattered around the common room, including Tim Murdock, who was now on shared duty with the task-force, and an attractive woman Paris hadn’t yet met but who looked a lot like a shrink. She had the posture, the confident bearing of education. ‘We have paper on six of them,’ he continued, writing the names on the chalkboard. ‘Nothing bigger than a B and E, though. The rest are mostly traffic. No violence.

‘Eleanor Burchfield told me she had not asked the man about his name, having assumed it was spelled F-a-r-r-o-w. It didn’t occur to her that it may have been Pharaoh, with a P-h. Regardless, there’s no “Pharaoh” in the databases. The FBI is currently running it through VICAP to see if there are any serial wackos out there with an Egyptian bent. On the other hand, he said his name as if it were just one word. I’m inclined toward “Pharaoh”.’

‘What about the make-up?’ asked Greg Ebersole, who looked to Paris about as alert on a Monday morning as he could remember seeing him. His unruly red hair was moussed and combed, his suit pressed. He looked like a cop. ‘Did we get any matching MOs on any earlier victims being made up post-mortem?’

‘Nothing yet. Or nothing that hasn’t been closed, I should say. As for fingerprints, we’ve got everybody accounted for at the four scenes. The few errants that were picked up belonged to police officers. Carl McCracken, a rookie from the Fourth, dropped one at the Red Valley Inn.’ Paris scanned their faces for more questions, found none. ‘Cyndy?’

Cyndy Taggart stood up, flipped open her notebook. ‘No connection yet between Reinhardt, Milius and Karen Schallert,’ she said. ‘They went to different high schools, different colleges, worked at different ends of town, they even banked with three different banks. Different health clubs, different gynecologists, different social circles. These three women did not know each other.’

‘What about boyfriends? Exes?’ Paris asked, finding it hard, after seeing Cyndy all dolled up the previous Wednesday night, not to look at her legs. Today she was wearing
very
tight jeans, making it even more difficult for him. ‘Any crossover?’

Cyndy shook her head. ‘Phoenix PD comes up negative on Milius’s ex-husband. No record. Burchfield had been seeing a guy named’ – she flipped a few pages – ‘Peter Heraghty. But he was in New Orleans. Got his signature on a VISA receipt the day of the murder. The other two were real loners, I’m afraid. No steadies.’

Paris nodded at Greg Ebersole, who stood up, cleared his throat.

‘All the women appear to have followed a similar routine, including Eleanor Burchfield. They all went solo to a club after work, had maybe one too many chardonnays and ended up leaving with our boy. All blood-alcohol levels were high, indicating that they probably had been drinking for at least a few hours.’

‘Is there any evidence that they hit more than one bar on the evening of the murder, that they may have met someone and gone bar-hopping?’ Elliott asked.

‘No one has ID’d them at any other bars in the area. None of them smoked, so we didn’t find matchbooks. No phone numbers on cocktail napkins.’

Greg Ebersole sat down.

Captain Elliott stepped forward and introduced the woman who had been standing at the back of the room. ‘This is Dr Gayle Wheaton, Associate Chief of Psychiatry at Johns Hopkins. We’re
extremely
fortunate to have her, but just for the week, I’m afraid.’ Elliott said. ‘Dr Wheaton?’

‘Good morning all,’ she said.

Dr Wheaton looked to be in her early forties – short red hair, fine-featured. She wore a navy blazer and pleated white skirt.

‘I’m not here to subject you to Serial Murder 101,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’ve all been well briefed on the basics of the deviant sexual mind. The reason I
am
here is to fill in a few gaps in the recent research.’

Despite her promise, Dr Wheaton proceeded to explain the very cardinal elements of the serial murderer’s MO. Shrinks always have to start at the beginning, Paris thought. That way they can bill a few more hours. He listened to her explain how there is always a pattern, each murder followed by a cooling-off period, which can last from just a few hours to months and longer. She discussed how, many times, the killer would take a memento from the victim or the scene. She spoke about how they almost always act alone.

Paris knew the rudiments. He took the opportunity to slip away, check his voice mail, and find Tommy.

Eleven messages!

Message one was from Stan Azzarello of the
Midnight Beacon
, perhaps the trashiest of the tabloids. If such measurements could be made. Paris often thought that making such comparisons was like trying to judge which piece of dog shit smelled the best.

Message two was from the woman who worked at Allied Salon Products. Something about the mustache. Paris jotted down her number and made a note to call Reuben to see if FBI Hair and Fiber had gotten back to him about the mustache found in Karen Schallert’s hair.

Messages three through nine were all from either national tabloid reporters or the regular group of sleazebags. The calls had come in all night. Out of habit, Paris copied these numbers down as well.

Number ten was from Melissa, who had called him at 7.05 a.m., before she left for school, to remind him about her upcoming play.

Message eleven was a hang-up.

Paris glanced at his watch and determined that it probably would not be too early to return Samantha Jaeger’s call, seeing as she was a nine-to-fiver. He dialed the number, noting that she lived in Lakewood. He got her machine, left a message.

Ditto for Tommy.

He then dialed Kasimir’s on Lorain, where Tommy had breakfast three or four mornings a week, but neither Kas Jaroz nor his wife, Bette, had seen him. Paris retrieved the Allied Salon Products card from his folder and was just about to dial when he noted that the shop was closed Mondays. He called anyway, but there was no answer, no machine.

Four for four, he thought.

With practiced ease he stood up, tossed the reporters’ phone numbers into the wastebasket, and rejoined the meeting.

‘… is the sort of man we’re looking for,’ Dr Wheaton said. ‘The make-up, the mutilation caused by the removing of the tattoos …’

‘So what does it all mean?’ asked Cyndy Taggart. ‘I mean, they’re dead, why the lipstick and blush and mascara? The reports say there’s no intercourse taking place after death. What’s the
attraction
?’

‘Well, the killer seems to be obsessed with the application and removal of adornments,’ said Dr Wheaton. ‘These are, of course, generally thought of as games young girls play. Dressing-up, putting make-up on dolls, that sort of thing. I’d say there’s a good possibility that he was raised in an all-female home.’

‘What about an only child, raised by his mother?’ Cyndy asked.

‘Certainly possible.’

The question had been bothering Paris since Rita the Barmaid had raised the possibility the previous week. He asked while the asking was free. ‘What are the chances that we’re looking for a woman? I mean, that this guy is partnered with a woman? As in, he’s luring them to the motels and she’s killing them and putting on the make-up. What are the chances we’re looking for a couple?’

Greg Ebersole and Randall Elliott glanced at each other, exchanging incredulous looks, but remained silent.

‘According to FBI stats, about nil,’ Dr Wheaton answered.

‘Less than one percent of criminals designated as serial murderers are female.’

‘I’ll bite,’ Paris said, instantly regretting his choice of verb. ‘Why?’

‘We’re not quite sure. The prevailing theories tend to lean toward the maternal instincts. Women tend to kill out of passion, not obsession. Men still commit most of the homicides in this country.’

Paris glanced over at Cyndy Taggart, who stuck her tongue out at him as punishment for asking such a sexist question.

‘But don’t think women can’t be just as sadistic as men,’ added Dr Wheaton. Paris returned Cyndy’s sneer. ‘The Aileen Wuornos case in Florida is an all too graphic reminder of the growing incidence of female serial murder.’

Paris knew all about Aileen Carol Wuornos, the road-house prostitute who was thought to have committed a string of murders along Florida’s I-95, the basis of
Monster
, the film starring Charlize Theron.

When he was looking up the details about Wuornos he had also googled ‘Rose of Jericho.’

The Rose of Jericho was a Middle Eastern flower that had a tendency to roll up when dry, then once again expand to full bloom when moistened. The Syrians and Egyptians had another name for it, Paris discovered, an ancient name he hoped would not be a portentous sign.

They called it the resurrection flower.

The EMS Unit was parked directly in front of 11606 Clifton Boulevard. The arched doorway at the front entrance to the twenty-four-suite apartment building was propped open with a stone pot bearing a few sadly neglected twigs, hollow stalks begging water.

The inner door was held open too – this one with a triangular wooden wedge – and as Paris scanned the mailboxes, found Samantha Jaeger’s name and apartment number, and began to mount the stairs, he found himself tempted to look into whatever it was that had drawn the paramedics to 11606. Besides being a detective, he was a terrible snoop. Born to nose.

Instead he focused on his duties, grateful to be pursuing something that had even a nodding acquaintance with a lead in this case.

The hallway on the second floor was narrow and medicinally clean. The floor beneath the carpet runner had been painted a dark brown enamel and it looked as if it had been buffed once a week for years. The sconces and floral wallpaper gave the corridor a 1930s-hotel look. Warm and inviting. Paris wondered about the rent.

Maybe, he thought morbidly, the presence of the EMS boys meant there was going to be an opening.

He shook his head, amazed at the perverse nature of his thoughts sometimes, and knocked on the door to number 206.

‘Are you with the police?’ The voice was nicotine-raspy, frightened.

Having given up on Samantha Jaeger ever answering the door, Paris was nearly through the doorway to the stairwell when the woman opened her door and spoke. He spun around to see a short, frail woman in her seventies, bunching the top of her robe together at her throat. She held a rhinestone-encrusted cigarette holder in the other hand.

‘Yes ma’am,’ Paris said, producing his shield. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘There were two of them, you know,’ she said soberly, as if passing along a government secret.

Paris walked toward the woman, who took a cautious step backward as he approached.

‘Two of who?’ He stopped short, not wanting to spook her. ‘Two of what?’

‘Two
people
, of course. A man and a woman.’

Paris could see a half-dozen cats perched in various positions through the slightly ajar door to the woman’s apartment. He smelled the aroma of simmering onions and tomatoes.

‘What two people would that be?’ Paris asked, sensing a crackpot answer coming. Ben and Jerry, maybe.

‘Two of them,’ she repeated. ‘They came for her last night.’

‘Who?’

‘And now they’ve found her at the bottom of the basement steps, her neck snapped in two.’

‘
Who
?’ Paris said, straining to keep his temper in check.

‘Why, Sam, of course,’ the woman said matter-of-factly. ‘Sammy Jaeger. She’s dead, you know.’

The words were like a roundhouse blow to Paris’s gut. He heard
dead
. He heard
a man and a woman
. He turned on his heels and headed for the stairwell, hoping to catch the paramedics before they moved the body. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’ll be back up here in a few minutes,’ he said, feeling winded, shaken. ‘Please don’t go anywhere, Mrs …’

She wasn’t getting it.

‘What’s your
name
?’

‘Estelle,’ she said. ‘Estelle Estabrook.’

‘Please don’t leave the building, Estelle,’ Paris said, feeling lousy about barking at an elderly woman. His father, rest his soul, would have gone upside his head.

‘Yes sir, sergeant,’ she answered, saluting.

Paris headed down the steps toward the basement, wondering how much of what Estelle Estabrook had told him, or would tell him, was born of this planet.

As for Samantha Jaeger, and
her
relationship to this life, he would soon find out.