Impersonal Attractions (20 page)

“He knows what she’s been doing,” Annie added. “And a couple of times when we’ve been together I’ve thought I’ve caught a glimpse of his car. There aren’t
that
many cars exactly like his in the city.” She hesitated a minute. “He does live in the city, doesn’t he?”

She hoped the question sounded casual. She had checked all the local directories for Sharder with no luck. The scores of suburban communities in the Bay Area, all with their separate listings, defeated her. Information operators couldn’t help her if she didn’t know the name of the town.

“East Bay,” Sean answered. Annie hoped he couldn’t hear the sound of her mind snapping at the fact. And he was going on. But then, how should he know that she thought she could do his job for him?

“He’s a pretty ordinary guy, holds down a decent job, enough to afford the Porsche. Nothing spectacular about him. You could file a complaint, Sam, if he’s really harassing you, but it really doesn’t go very far. We can’t arrest him because he likes to pick up women on the freeway and give them white roses.”

He smiled at Sam. Annie rather liked the smile, friendly rather than indulgent.

“I’ll give him another run-through and see if anything pops. But I really don’t think he’s our man. Don’t think he’s the type.”

“What’s the type?” Sam asked.

“Come on, dear, you’ve nosed around the blood and. guts business enough to know the answer to that.”

“I haven’t.” Annie didn’t want him to drop the subject. “Go on.”

“You going into mystery writing next?” Sean asked.

“You never can tell.”

“Okay. If we were talking about an ordinary rapist, garden variety, he could be anybody. He could be the guy at the next table.”

They turned and looked at a rather distinguished gentleman in a gray suit eating his steak alone while studying a thick sheaf of papers. He felt their glances and looked up, startled.

“But a real fruitcake like this man’s got to be… Yes, there’s a type. I can’t tell you what he had for breakfast or how many times his father beat him while he was growing up, but he usually has some history of aberrant childhood behavior. He’s probably a loner. A paranoid. He may have delusions that he’s killing because some high power wants him to, that it’s a form of homage. He’s not fond of women, though he may appear to be drawn to them. Women are very complicated for him. Love. Hate. Rejection. His mother. A jumble. His problems have probably manifested themselves before. He’s crazy, you know.”

“Would you be able to spot him as a weirdo just by looking at him? Is that what you mean?” Annie asked.

“He’s not going to wear a T-shirt that announces ‘I Love to Murder Women.’ But, yes, I’d say there’s something about him that would make both of you uncomfortable if you met him in a bar. A vibration that I think you’re streetwise enough to pick up. He’d spook you.” He hesitated. “I hope.”

“Not always, huh?” Sam asked.

“No, I can tell you all this and then there’s the exception to the rule. The perfectly ordinary-looking guy in a blue suit your mother would love to have you bring home to dinner, who in his spare time rips people’s guts out.” He looked down at his plate. “I’m sorry.”

They ordered coffee. Annie studied Sean.

He wore a gray chalk-striped suit with a gold watch chain across the vest, white shirt, paisley tie. He looked more like a successful lawyer than a detective. According to Sam, he had been known to speak of art, music, the ballet. And he didn’t wear his gun to bed, where Sam said he was a generous and enthusiastic lover.

Of course, he was a bit rabid on the subject of criminals and capital punishment. Annie suspected his politics might be a little to the right of Torquemada, but she occasionally heard statements indicating a creeping over-thirty conservatism coming out of her own mouth.

Hadn’t she been talking about doing away with Lola’s killer?

Sean was looking at her.

“Tell me more about Lola. Why would a woman like that run an ad in the personals?”

“What do you mean, ‘a woman like that’?”

“Whoa. Hold on,” Sean said. “Lola Davis was beautiful, intelligent. She had a lovely home, a great practice. She seemed to have everything going for her.
That’s
what I meant. So why would she be looking for love in the paper?”

Sam and Annie exchanged a look, shook their heads. Why indeed?

“Let us tell you about reality for a single woman in this city, my friend,” Annie began. They were on a third cup of coffee when they finished.

Sean shrugged his shoulders. The look on his face was skeptical.

“Well, I hear this from other people, but I don’t know what to believe. Do you really think that a woman like Lola, a woman like either of you”—he looked at both of them—“could expect to meet someone she’d like through a personal?”

They both laughed.

Annie apologized. “An in-joke, Sean. I’m sorry. But I sure as hell hope so.

“Maybe not Prince Charming, maybe not the love of her life, but not someone who’s going to kill her either. Look, I’ve answered ads and I’ve placed one, and the guys I’ve met may be boring, or ugly, or plastic, but none of them has ever been a murderer.”

“That you know of. I think you’re taking an awful gamble, Annie. In the best of circumstances you can’t be too careful and I think this ad business is foolhardy.”

“Why is it more dangerous than meeting someone in a bar or a restaurant?” Sam asked him pointedly.

“You’d already met me. Through work.”

“I’m not talking about us. I’m talking about the millions of casual ways that people meet. We can’t always wait for our Aunt Penny to introduce us to nice men who are the sons of their oldest friends, you know. And what’s to say even some of
those
aren’t psychos?”

Sean pushed back from the table. “Okay, okay, you win. I just think it pays to be as careful as you can, that’s all. Now, I do think this ad business is worth a look. We’ll check into all the letters Lola received.”

“And Sharder too?” Sam asked.

“Yes, him too. Again.”

Sean caught the look that passed between the two women.

“Okay, what’s going on here?”

“Nothing.” They were all wide-eyed innocence.

“Never try to con a con man.” He smiled grimly at both of them. “Listen, dear things. I know that Lola’s death hit close to home. And I know that you think you’re on to something with John Sharder, but believe me, your men in blue get paid to do this job and we will do it by ourselves, thank you. Stay out of it, ladies. You could get in our way and, more important, you could get hurt. I wouldn’t like to see something happen to either one of you.”

“Yes, Sean.” They nodded gravely as they both crossed their fingers under the white tablecloth.

*

After lunch they headed toward Sam’s office.

“We’ve got to sit down and talk about what we’re doing,” Sam had said.

The going was slow through the midtown Christmas shopping, with sidewalks that were packed.

They stopped for a minute before the florist Podesta Baldocchi’s windows. This year, as always, they were filled with a forest of magnificently decorated trees.

“Oh, let’s go in for just a minute.”

Annie was easily tempted.

Sam stood before a tree that was a fantasy of pink and gold. Angels flew, bugles blew, palest pink angel hair floated in a soft veil over it all. The tree took her back to her childhood. She felt six years old again, standing with her nose pressed to the window of F.A.O. Schwarz.

Attached to a lower branch was a neatly lettered sign that read ALL
ITEMS
ON
THIS
TREE
FOR
SALE
.

“I really want it.”

“The whole tree? That’s a little extravagant, Sammie, even for you.”

“No, silly, the sign. Wouldn’t it be funny to put on my tree at home?”

Despite her engaging manner, the salesman steadfastly refused to sell Sam the sign.

“But the sign says everything on the tree is for sale and the sign is on the tree. Therefore, it must be for sale too.” Annie tried a little deductive reasoning with him.

The man couldn’t be budged.

“I’m sorry, madam, the sign is not for sale.”

“Is that the silliest thing you’ve ever heard?” Sam sputtered as they fought their way back out onto the sidewalk.

“You really want the sign?”

“Of course! What are you going to do? Go back in and break his arm?”

“Nope, no need. Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”

“Annie…”

“Uh-uh, guess you don’t want it.”

Sam did as she was told. Annie laid the little lettered card in her hand.

“What?!”

“Remember I told you once that I belonged to a gang of shoplifters when I was a kid? A lift a day at the dime store or you were out? I like to keep my hand in now and then.”

“Annie, that’s just ter…wonderful!” And she gave her best friend a big hug. “Let’s don’t tell Sean, okay?”

“Fine by me. I don’t want him to call my mother.”

A few doors down, Sam stopped and bought them chocolate truffles in the Candy Jar.

“I really shouldn’t be rewarding such heinous behavior,” she said. They crossed Union Square, where the Christmas lights, the bums, and the pigeons vied for space with the shoppers headed for Macy’s across the street.

They arrived at Sam’s office red-cheeked and ready to get to work. They both squeezed into the cubicle that bore Sam’s name, barely large enough for more than herself, her computer terminal, and a cup of coffee.

“He said East Bay, didn’t he?” Sam said, knowing full well he had, handing Annie a stack of telephone books she’d scavenged from a pile in the center of the bullpen. “Let’s start digging.”

Their fingers flashed past the towns: San Pablo, El Cerrito, Pleasanton, Walnut Creek. They didn’t know how far north or south to go. The western boundary of the area was the Bay, but east could go as far as Livermore.

Sharder. Scharder. Schaerder.

There was one.

No answer.

No John.

No Jack.

No luck.

They ended up with a small list of maybe’s, which they divided up to work on at home.

“Have you thought about what we’re going to do when we find him?” asked Sam.

“Sure,” Annie answered, tucking her list into her bag and pulling on a bright purple beret. “We’re going to be very civilized about it. We’ll ask him for tea.”

THIRTY-THREE

T
he boy had run with the searing pain in his head until he almost couldn’t see for the agony. The old headaches came back when he was upset, blood pounding with no release.

He didn’t know how many miles he’d run and walked, oblivious to everything but the shame and the pain, when he looked up and found himself in front of a nigger house on the far edge of the Quarters. Parked in front of it, between two old tires planted with petunias, was a dark green Volkswagen with New York plates. Yankee do-gooders, like the ones run off from New Blessings, for sure.

He’d waited, crouched, for only a minute, pictures of Missy on that front porch replaying in his mind, when the Yankee bitch had come out to her car, calling good nights behind her.

She hadn’t gotten very far, but far enough, on the tire he’d punctured with his knife, when she had to get out on the dark road alone.

She was by herself for only a moment and then she was dead.

He felt a lot better. Now he could only faintly hear the echoes of Missy’s laughter ringing in his ears.

*

It was very late. He should have been home hours ago. He sneaked up on his back porch, his boots in his hand,
when suddenly his pa reached out of the shadows and slapped him upside his head. In his hand Pa was holding the broken ax handle.

“Let me be, Pa. You ain’t going to whip me tonight,” he growled, trying to push his father away.

His father didn’t say anything, but just kept shoving at him, pushing him back into the yard, away from the house and the hearing of his mother.

“You ain’t going to do this, Pa,” he warned him again. But his pa wouldn’t listen and the ax handle was poised above his head, ready to strike the first blow.

It was his last. The boy grabbed the handle as it struck home and turned it against his father. He hit him again and again until he was still and there was no sound but that of his own breathing. When he looked down at his feet he couldn’t recognize the face in what was left.

He’d run then. Run the two miles to the Reverend Jones’s house. He didn’t know what else to do.

The preacher listened gravely to what the boy told him, loaded him in the back of his old station wagon under some blankets, gave his wife instructions not to answer the phone until he got back, and drove southward, straight through the night.

When they got to Darcy decisions would be made.