Harlot's Moon (8 page)

Conroy said that Ronald Swanson, 56, of Cedar Rapids, was found in the front seat of his car where it was parked behind the Lariat Lounge on A Ave N.W.

Tavern patrons said that Swanson had spent three hours in the tavern and had been drinking heavily.

The story concluded by noting that Swanson was an insurance company executive and a father of three. Services were pending.

Interesting.

Tawanna Jackson's eyes had been cut out. Ronald Swanson's ear had been cut off. And Father Daly's tongue had been cut out. There had to be a connection here.

The FBI taught me to analyze crimes, to do psychological profiles on criminals from what they did and didn't do, from what they left behind and what they took with them. Now, automatically, whenever I hear of a crime I start analyzing on the basis of what I know: what kind of person would have done this?

Why?

When a murdered man's possessions included news stories about two other murdered people, there ought to be a connection. There was something nagging my brain but staying just out of reach. And I wasn't surprised. Count up the sleep I'd had in the last two days and it didn't add up to much. It was time to rest, let the back of my mind work on those niggling things and bring them to the surface.

The phone rang just as I was carrying the dishes over to the sink.

My classically-striped cat Tasha was on the couch waiting for me to join her for a few hours of TV watching. Crystal and Tess, the other two cats, were lying side by side in the armchair, sleeping.

I sat down on the couch, lifted Tasha up on to my lap, and then answered the phone.

"Hello?"

Silence.

"Hello?"

If they don't identify themselves after the second hello, I always hang up. I hung up.

Tasha and I watched some old sit-coms on Nick At Nite and then I went in and got ready to go to bed, where Felice already was.

The phone rang again.

This time I picked it up on the nightstand next to the bed.

"Hello?"

Silence.

"Hello?"

Still nothing.

I hung up. Now Felice was propped up on one elbow, looking at me.

I shook my head. Don't answer.

Okay. She flattened herself under the cover again, but I didn't think she went back to sleep.

When I came out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, my mouth smarting from the nuclear mouthwash I use, the phone rang once again.

This time when I picked up, I said nothing.

Finally, a woman said: "Hello."

"Who is this?"

"I'd like to speak with Mr. Payne."

"Who is this?"

Silence.

"My name is Eleanor Wilson. Ellie."

"This is Robert Payne. Did you call here earlier?"

Hesitation. Then: "Yes. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hung up those times. I was just - nervous."

"What can I do for you, Mrs Wilson?"

"You sound angry. I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot."

We always like to think that the beautiful ones are self-possessed and in control. She was anything but.

"I'm afraid to say — well, what I called to say."

"I'm not an ogre, Mrs Wilson. Just say it."

"Call me Ellie. Please."

I sighed. "Ellie, look. Why don't you just get to the point and then we'll see if there's any way I can help you."

"You still sound angry."

I whistled a couple bars of Moon River.

She laughed. "I knew you'd have a sense of humor. I saw that in your eyes tonight. You know, at the rectory"

"Now that I'm in such a good mood, Ellie, why don't you tell me why you called?"

"They'll think I did it, won't they?"

"The police?"

"Yes."

"Think you killed Father Daly?"

Hesitation. "You saw the earring when it fell out of my purse tonight."

"Yes, I did." Obviously I did. I picked it up. Was she on something?

I kept seeing her face, her beautiful, beautiful face. I felt almost giddy, her ridiculously lovely fashion, my ridiculously painful loneliness despite Felice's presence. Ellie had me dreaming high school dreams, me with a nice new red convertible, squiring the Homecoming Queen around town.

Not that my life had ever been like that. The only convertible I'd ever owned had been a junker, and the Homecoming Queen of my senior year of high school had pronounced me a "dip-shit" in front of maybe twenty people. She'd been wearing white fabric pumps that matched her gown. During her mercy slow dance with me I'd trod mightily on her toes.

"Bob said he knows you saw it — the other earring. Not the one in my purse, the one in the room. He knows you know he took it."

"I kind've figured he did."

"He'd be very angry if he knew I was talking to you."

I sighed. "I guess I'm not sure what you'd like me to do exactly, Ellie."

"Meet for lunch tomorrow."

"Lunch?"

"I need to talk to you. I may even hire you. We have plenty of money, if that's what you're concerned about."

Her face again. Her grave wonderful eyes.

"Where would you like to meet?" I said.

"I was thinking of Thurber Park. There's a little restaurant down the street from the boat dock. They have good seafood."

"I need to say something here, Ellie."

"I know. You reserve the right to think that I'm guilty"

"Yes. That's right."

"My earring being there, I suppose your being suspicious is natural."

"You were there last night with him, weren't you, Ellie?"

"I think I hear Bob pulling in. I need to go. I'll see you about noon tomorrow then."

She hung up fast, and I sighed. I was out of the mood for sleep now. I went back to my spare-room table.

My cat Tasha came in and spent the next hour on my lap while I started working up the profile of Father Daly's killer and getting nowhere because I really didn't have enough data to work with.

The problem is that no matter what anybody tells you, psychological profiling is not a science. It's an art. It works well in some cases, but almost all of the cases it works for are sex-related crimes, which includes almost all serial killings. Even a contract killer has a reason he's willing to do that work. It's also relevant to other serial crimes, especially arson that's not for profit.

I wasn't sure I had a sex-related killing here. I wasn't sure I had a serial killing. If I did, I didn't know — or wasn't sure — what the prior crimes had been.

If only I'd found those clippings somewhere other than in the victim's room . . .

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. If frogs had wings they wouldn't bump their butts when they hopped.

Felice came in twice for kisses, and I went out there once for a kiss, and then I was back at it.

When I heard the doorbell, the first thing I did was look at my wrist-watch on the table. It was late for visitors.

"I'll get that," I called out.

If there was a crazy at the door, I wanted to be the one to greet him.

I stuffed my Luger into my pants pocket and walked through the apartment. Felice had given up on sleep. She was watching Jay Leno, clicking down the volume with the channel surfer.

I walked to the door and peeked out through the spyhole. At first, I didn't recognize him. He looked just like any gray-haired and rather nondescript guy in his late sixties. Then I realized who he was and my stomach knotted up immediately.

"Oh, shit," I said.

"Is everything all right?" Felice said from the couch.

"I'll explain later."

I opened up the door and the first thing he said was, "Hey, I really like your new digs, Bobby. This is the kind of pad chicks love."

New digs. Pad. Chicks.

I only knew one person, besides Gilhooley of course, who still talked this way. And it was a person I didn't ever want to see again.

I didn't know how he'd found me. But he always could get what he wanted. Even new addresses.

I made three quick assessments: he looked much older, and had dropped maybe as much as fifty pounds. He was no longer a clothes horse; his sport jacket looked cheap and wrinkled, his chinos even worse. And he'd developed this very croupy cough. He stood in my doorway hacking and coughing.

Then I took full notice of the lone battered suitcase that sat next to him.

"Travelin' kind of light these days, Bobby," he said.

"Is there something I can do for you, Vic?"

Then I became aware of his gasping. It was as if he couldn't suck in sufficient air.

"You could invite me in and let me sit down," he panted.

"I'm sorry, Vic, but I don't want to invite you in."

I started to close the door but then a slender, elegant hand touched mine and Felice whispered, "This isn't like you, Robert. I've never seen you this mean before. That man is sick."

She then pulled the door open again and said, "Please, come in and sit down."

For him, she had a smile, for me a glower.

"Why, thank you so much, ma'am."

"I'm Felice," she said, bending down to take his suitcase. "I'm Robert's friend."

"I'm Vic Carney," he said. "I'm Robert's stepfather."

He moved very slowly, as if he were afraid he might pitch over at any time.

Felice helped him inside, and then made him a nice comfy place on the couch.

"How about a cup of hot chocolate?"

He grinned with cheap, store-bought teeth. "That sounds great. You sure got yourself a nice gal, Bobby."

I followed her out to the kitchen.

"How can you treat that sweet old man that way, Robert?"

"One, because he isn't a sweet old man, he's a con artist. And two, because—" I stopped. "Never mind."

She glared at me. "Never mind?"

"He was an advertising guy. Worked for a couple of nickel and dime agencies. After my father died, my mother was very vulnerable. But even so, I couldn't believe it when she took up with Vic. My father was a geologist, a very quiet, intelligent, honorable guy. Then here comes Vic, this advertising asshole. I couldn't believe it.

"He was always trying to impress me with how cool he was, how he played golf with the Governor, and knew a lot of the movie stars he used in his biggest commercials, and how he was making all this money. I tried never to take anything from him. If he bought me something, I always gave it back."

She watched me quietly as I spoke. There was real rage in my voice and, I suspected, on my face.

"I hate to say this, Robert, but it sort of sounds like you hated him because he tried to take your father's place with you and your mother."

"All those hours with the shrinks are starting to rub off on you. I hate him because he's a jerk."

"I'm serious," she said, as the milk came to a boil. She spooned chocolate powder into a cup. "It sounds like you had more of a problem with him than he had with you."

"Down deep, he's a used-car salesman," I said. "He's already got you conned. He was able to con almost anybody."

"He conned your mother?"

"Absolutely. She was never able to see him for what he is."

"But he didn't con you?"

"No, he didn't. I always knew what he was."

She smiled. "A pod person?"

"Exactly. A very dangerous pod person." I paused. "Plus, he took her away — everywhere. Europe, the South Seas, Russia . . . they were always traveling. I basically spent high school — after my dad died — alone."

Felice plopped three small marshmallows into the hot drink and we went back to the living room. Vic was still hacking when we got there.

Felice gave him the drink then came over and put her nice bottom on the arm of the chair where I was sitting.

"So how long has it been since you two saw each other?" she said.

"Not long enough," I said.

He'd been about to take a sip of his hot chocolate but when I spoke, he stopped, the cup halfway to his lips.

"Bobby hates me."

"Oh. I'm sure he doesn't hate you," she said.

He smiled grimly with his store-boughts. "You don't hear him denying it, do you?"

"C'mon, Robert, tell Vic you don't hate him."

I said nothing.

"I'm sorry, Vic," she said. "Bobby's just being an asshole. Some kind of male PMS deal or something like that."

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

"See, he does know how to smile, Vic. Isn't that a cute little smile?"

"I probably wasn't a very good stepfather to him," Vic said. "I mean, I'm sure I could've handled things around the house much better. And I was kind of a showboat. Laura, his mother, I think she liked that about me. She liked all the advertising people, but Bobby always thought they were con artists. He read this Sloan Wilson novel where one of the characters said, 'You don't go into advertising because you have talent; you go into advertising because you don't have talent.
' Bobby must've quoted that a hundred times at the dinner table."