Head Games (26 page)

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Authors: Eileen Dreyer

BOOK: Head Games
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Molly gave him a grimace. “I came here for a little escape, Frank.”
She hadn't started out with that in mind, of course. She'd meant to come warn him off. To tell him to take his beautiful, normal children and get the hell out of the city for a while, away from her before it all got a lot worse. But then, somehow, she'd ended up picking up his children, because their grandmother didn't like driving in winter, so here she was.
Frank just grinned. “You came to ask if I could think of anybody—besides you, of course—with reason enough to toast my beautiful Lauren.”
Leave it to Frank to name his car after Lauren Bacall. Because it was fast, sweet, and seductive, with a low growl, he said. And here Molly had thought calling her Toyota “good car” was enough.
“Well, can you?”
His smile was easier than hers would have been if she'd been laid up with a tube in her chest and a face that looked like overdone chicken. “Nope. Everybody I deal with fights back with briefs and countersuits. But then, if you'd talked to the arson guy, you'd know he already asked me that.”
“It doesn't mean you told him the truth.”
Damn him if he didn't think that was funny. Molly got her revenge when he laughed before remembering how compromised his chest muscles were. “This time, I'm afraid I did. You having any luck with Kathy?”
“Oh yes. The homicide guys fell all over her like a beer truck in the desert. We spent a lovely afternoon sharing evidence, and then she and a couple of them went off for drinks. I decided I'd had enough fun and borrowed her car to run the Grace Hospital carpool instead. That way I could play with your kids and visit you. Then, maybe I'll do more computer time.”
His eyes widened. “You? Computers?”
Molly scowled. “I'd say you're the last person to tell me to blow off anything that can help us nail this guy, Frank.”
Frank's smile was way too knowing. “I'd say I couldn't stop you if I tied you to a chair and gagged you, St. Molly. But computers. This
must
be serious.”
“That's what I've been trying to tell everyone,” she said with a grin. Still creaking like an old screen door, she got to her feet just as the kids
tumbled back into the room. “I'll be back to pick you up in a bit, kids. Till then, do me a favor. Tickle him.”
“You didn't ask, Daddy,” Abigail protested as Molly lurched toward the door.
“You're right, sweetheart. But Molly won't say yes to me. She'll only say yes to you.”
Chagrined, Molly turned to find those wide brown eyes lifted her way in the kind of mute appeal four-year-olds had used all down the ages to get whatever they wanted.
“We talked about it,” Abigail said, “and you and Patrick don't have any kids for Christmas.”
Molly's stomach plummeted. “I usually work on Christmas, pumpkin.”
But the kids weren't buying. “We want you to come,” Theresa said. “Since you keep saving Dad and all.”
Since she kept almost getting him killed.
“I'd be honored to come,” Molly said, knowing there was no way out. “One condition, though. Until then you keep your daddy at home. Or better yet, take him on vacation somewhere.”
“Molly …” Frank all but growled.
Molly glared at him with all the meaning they couldn't share with children. “For my Christmas present, take care of your most cherished gifts.”
“Dinner's … oh, uh …”
Molly heard the scuffle of shoes behind her and turned to find her housekeeping guy standing in the door, looking even more disheveled than usual and struggling with Frank's dinner tray as if it had a life of its own.
“Uh … hi,” he greeted her with his half smile.
Molly smiled back and pulled the kids aside to make room. “How ya doing, John?”
He just tucked his chin in his chest, dropped the tray onto Frank's bedside table, and backed out the door again.
“He's scared of you,” Frank accused with a grin.
“I think he's been drinking,” Molly accused back. “Couldn't you smell it?”
Frank scowled. “All I can smell is disinfectant and the chocolate Abigail won't share with me.”
Abigail immediately climbed up on the bed, and Molly took her own temporary leave for some computer work, so Frank could spend a little time alone with his kids. And once she made it out of the room, she pulled the floor team leader aside to report the hapless housekeeping tech. She did it quietly and calmly. The nurse, an average talent with a too big workload and too little trained help, promised action as if Molly were cutting the ground out from beneath her feet. Molly smiled in commiseration and then got the hell out before anybody could think to ask her to fill in.
Much later, when it was completely dark out and Molly couldn't put off going home anymore, she shut off the computer, picked up Frank's kids, and headed homeward.
Which was where she found Kathy. Not at Molly's house, of course. The agent had evidently checked in and decided that a course of tea and Jewish sympathy would be the best alternative for an extended waiting period. By the time Molly waded twice through the quicksand of microphones and shark smiles to track her down in Sam's flea market of a kitchen, the agent's cheeks were rosy, her posture a bit sloppy, and she was telling Sam a rather ribald joke.
“Oh, Sam,” Molly mourned. “You've debauched an FBI agent. I think that's a federal offense.”
Kathy, unbelievably, giggled. Sam waved Molly off like an offending fly. “
Feh!
” he snapped. “A little tea.”
Molly didn't take her eyes off the usually very upright agent. “I'm not sure she can get to her feet, Sam.”
“Of course she can,” Kathy said with a tidy wink. “She'll have to. She needs to talk to you.”
“Good news or bad?”
“Both.”
Molly almost walked out of the room. “Good first.”
Kathy nodded in approval. “I am considerably heartened by the police attitude. Evidently they have decided to ignore certain chiefs and political appointees. They have, I believe—and barring surprises—a workable plan.”
“Uh-huh. Then the bad news is?”
Kathy stopped blinking. She watched Molly with disconcerting intensity.
“In my opinion you definitely have a serial killer delivering you trophies.”
“I knew that, Kathy.”
Kathy shook her head. “He's not sending you the notes, though.”
Suddenly the only noise in that kitchen was the loud ticking of the yellow plastic daisy clock on Sam's wall.
“What?”
Kathy looked apologetic. “You have more than one person trying to get your attention, Molly.”
 
 
Kenny never watched the five o'clock news. Never. But after what he'd heard today at work, he knew he had to make an exception.
He should have been so happy. He
had
been happy. Had it only been two nights ago when Donnatheanchor had begun her story with “A grisly discovery in the Central West End …”?
He had seen Miss Burke's face, there on the television as she'd run past the microphones on her way into work. He'd heard all about how the police were concerned, how she was mystified, how sources had admitted that this wasn't the first discovery of its kind, how experts were trying to examine the bones to find clues. It should have been so perfect.
But this was wrong. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. She was supposed to understand. Be surprised, maybe even sorry. He would even understand if she were worried. After all, Kenny knew that his hobby wasn't usual.
But to be afraid. Afraid for her life.
For somebody to try and hurt her.
For her to think it was
him
who was doing it!
This was supposed to be between Miss Burke and him. Nobody else. Nobody had the right to interfere.
My God, he thought, picking up his beer with shaking hands, she could have been killed by some stranger. She could have died alone, and all because he'd done something wrong. Given the wrong message, or done it at the wrong time or the wrong way so that somebody thought it was a game Kenny would share.
He had to think. He had to prepare. He had to make her understand, so she didn't suffer at someone else's hands.
So she didn't leave.
Kenny was all set to get up when the picture stopped on Miss Burke's face, and he saw it. There in her eyes, surprised by the bright lights and some smartaleck camera guy.
Fear. The confused, kind of hollow look of somebody who thinks they're being hunted and doesn't know why.
Scared. The one person who knew him. The one person who'd tried to help.
And it was his fault. It had to be.
Kenny didn't remember putting his beer down. He didn't know if he turned off the TV or put his friend away. He just knew that suddenly he was in his dark place. Curled up tight on the floor, his eyes closed, his heartbeat louder than thunder, his cheeks and hair wet. He just knew he was where he belonged for what he must have done, and he knew he was scared.
She couldn't leave. Please, please, Miss Burke, don't leave. You're all I have. You're the only one. The only one.
If you leave me, there won't be any of me left.
And so he cried and he rocked and he knew that when his punishment was over, he would prepare another way.
All Molly could think was that she'd had such a bad day she was automatically hearing worst-case scenarios. Even Sam was quiet, his eyes wide, his breathing quick and raspy. Molly so wanted to just slump into one of his bright blue kitchen chairs and make a grab for the vodka.
Two
people. Two entirely separate threats, both of them deadly. And here she'd been thinking that they'd finally made some headway.
She should have known. She
had
known, down there where the little whispery voices lived. Where the notes and bones had never quite fit into a perfect match, no matter how hard they all tried.
“You look like you need to vent a little,
taibeleh
,” Sam sympathized, patting her arm. “I have a whole houseful of awful ceramic doodads my Myra bought when we traveled. They're all very ugly. Go break them in my fireplace.”
Molly knew all about the ceramics. A good half dozen resided in her family room. But that wasn't what she'd been considering.
“Sam,” she said, dropping into that chair after all so she could take his hand. “I had a thought. How about if we call your daughter? She would so love to see you for Hanukkah.”
Sam stiffened as if she'd questioned his honor. “And leave Myra alone?”
“Okay then, what about staying with
her
for a few days? Only till things settle down. I'm sure they'd be able to let you stay there with her. You know, away from all this noise and bother.”
“Away from these
momzers
who attack you?” The old man made Molly frantic when he smiled and took hold of her hand. “Molly, my dear, sweet
girl. I am eighty years old. I have blue ink on my forearm that won't ever wash off, and a wife who doesn't know me from a plant who I still visit every day. And you think one dybbuk crazy man is enough to send me running away from you?”
Molly never gave way to tears. They were in her eyes now. “I couldn't bear anything happening to you because of me.”
“And what should become of Patrick if I disappear? You know he can't stay in that house of yours with those
pishers
out front.”
“I'm sending him home as soon as I can get hold of his parents.”
Sam shook his head. “He'll never forgive you.”
“I don't care if he ever forgives me! I just want him to be alive to make the choice.”
“Talk to lovely Kathy here first,” he suggested. “Let this all sink in, so you can think right. It's too much of a shock.” His eyes brightened and he gave her a little shake. “Some tea,” he suggested and made a move to get to get to his feet.
Molly eased him right back down with a grim attempt at a smile. “And have
Hard Copy
get a shot of me falling flat on my face in your driveway? No, Sam. But thank you.”
“
Feh!
” he snapped, waving her off. “As if you're afraid of those toothless jackals. I swept four off my porch before dinner!”
“Nonetheless, I don't think I want to incite them.” Especially since they'd go into a feeding frenzy when they got hold of this latest bit of gossip. “I think it would be better if Kathy and I go someplace and talk.”
Kathy frowned a little. “The press isn't going to ignore me going into your house much more.”
Molly straightened as if she'd been shot. “Not my house. I've spent too damn much time there. Besides, I need to fortify myself.”
Kathy scooped up her purse and scraped her chair back. “There are a couple of quiet bars in the neighborhood if you want.”
Sam actually laughed and patted the agent's hand. “You don't understand Molly's idea of fortification, young lady.”
Molly gave Sam a kiss on the cheek as Kathy got her coat. “Please, Sam,” she begged. “For my Hanukkah gift. Think about it.”
She was about to lead Kathy out the back door when Sam took hold of her arm. “Molly, a moment …”
Molly knew that tone of voice. She bent to her old friend, as if that could provide confidentiality. “What happened?”
He puffed a little in distress. “I hate to bother you now. It's such a small thing.”
“Don't make me go out the door worrying, Sam.”
His smile was brief and relieved. “Little Allen's money …”
“Again?”
“I had him get it for me. I was wrapping something, and well, the tape …”
“Allen looked in your jar and told you your money was missing?” Molly asked, not at all happy. When Sam nodded, she felt worse. “And you got him money from your stash, didn't you?”
He nodded again. “I'm sure I didn't misplace the money. I saw it just this morning. Where could it go?”
And Molly had thought her head hurt before. “Do me a favor. Move your stash. I'll call Straub's in the morning. I don't want Allen back here. There have been some questions, Sam …”
Sam clucked in distress. “Not Little Allen.”
“Could it be Patrick?”
Sam's expression froze. “I'll call Straub's tomorrow.”
Molly took hold of his hands. “I want you to be safe. I promise, if we're wrong, I'll apologize myself. Till then, you don't need to keep losing money, okay?”
She actually saw tears of distress and shame in his eyes. He'd been afraid his mind was slipping, stuttering away to decay like his beloved Myra's.
“
Zeyde
,” she said, squeezing those gnarled old fingers, “your mind is as sharp as glass. Please, believe me. Now, lock your doors and let nobody in but me or Patrick.” He allowed Molly's fierce hug as long as he could return pats on Molly's back.
“I'm sorry, Sam.”
“
Gottenyu
,
neshomeleh
,” he whispered. “Don't ever be sorry. You've made my old life a joy. Now, go.”
And then she led Kathy out the back door.
It was actually painfully easy to elude the press. While they watched the street, Molly and Kathy crept back through Sam's darkened backyard
to the Roberts' yard beyond. A quick hop over the fences, and they got to Molly's Toyota, which she'd left parked on the much busier Euclid. Waiting only long enough for a full-lights-and-siren fire truck to pass, Molly waved to her plainclothes baby-sitter stationed up the block and drove up to Taylor to turn left onto Kingshighway and head south.
 
 
Uncle Bill's Pancake House had sat on the west side of South Kingshighway as long as Molly could remember. One of the first twenty-four-hour pancake joints in St. Louis, it had always been a local favorite for late dates, after-prom parties, and late-shift breakfasts. Molly had attended her share for tradition, kitsch, and chocolate chip pancakes.
The customers hadn't changed much, and the display case in the front still boasted glittered ceramic crèche figures for sale. Inside, a decor that had begun as Black Forest half-timber now boasted a veritable symphony of wood panelings. Add to that the brown-pattern carpeting, the faux-wood Formica-and-Naugahyde booths, and Uncle Bill's was the epitome of South St. Louis decor.
Kathy, obviously a veteran of local food joints the country over, gave a half smile as she slid into the booth. Molly inhaled the bouquet of coffee and syrup and sighed in relief. Whatever she needed to hear, it would sound better over pancakes. Apple pecan, she decided, checking the place-mat menu. Sausage and hash browns. Biscuits with grape jelly. Maybe a couple of eggs.
The hell with vodka. What she needed right now was a big, honkin' dose of cholesterol.
“Been a while, Molly,” the waitress said with a smile. “The usual?”
Molly smiled right back at the polyester-bedecked woman. “Hi, Fran. Yeah, the usual. Apple pecan tonight.”
She grimaced in disappointment when Kathy ordered nothing more than fruit and coffee.
“All right, Kathy,” Molly said softly after the waitress had departed, pencil over ear. “What the hell were you talking about?”
Kathy concentrated on mixing cream into her coffee, as if it were a ritual for dispensing bad news. “Off the record,” she said.
“If you write anything down, I'll eat it before I leave.”
“I'd let you, but then I'd have to kill you.”
Molly's laugh was a little sore. “Actually, it'd sure be a lot more restful than any of the other alternatives.”
Kathy's smile was softer than Molly had ever seen on an investigator. “You're taking on too much, you know.”
This time Molly couldn't manage more than a stunned blink.
Kathy wasn't at all insulted. “I may not be able to help everything,” she said. “But I can give you a couple pieces of well-earned advice.”
Molly snorted rather unkindly. “Oh, why not? After all, Frank's not available right now.”
Kathy still smiled. But then, Kathy knew Frank. “Your only real responsibility is your nephew. Everybody else can take care of themselves.”
“But …”
“They're all perfectly aware of how dangerous it might be,” Kathy said. “They're your friends, Molly. Whether you like it or not, you're going to need them to get through this.”
For a minute Molly couldn't even answer. She wasn't sure if it was bile or high dudgeon that lodged in her throat. It was bad enough the agent was so presumptuous. Did she also have to understand so well? Molly refused to look at her.
“And the other piece?”
“Don't take her home with you.”
Molly did look up then. “Pardon me?”
Kathy watched her carefully. “The young girl who belongs to that skull and those eyes. Becomes personal when you see a face, doesn't it? Well, don't let it. He's not killing them to get back at you. He's doing it because he's been wanting to do it since he was six years old. And he'll probably kill again before we can find him. You're going to have to live with that.”
For a minute all Molly could manage was a tactless stare. Then she laughed, although it sounded a little sharp. “You sure you're not a shrink?” she asked.
Kathy still smiled. “I've just spent my share of time at this particular dance. Why do you think I'll only do it part-time?”
Molly watched the eddies she'd created in her own coffee. She thought of those soft, dark eyes that had ceased to exist because of a psychopath's obsession, and she sighed. “It's been so long since it affected me like this.
I thought I'd …” She shrugged, knowing there were too few words for too many years. “I don't know, built that wall high enough, ya know? But then, I've never had a victim come personally addressed to me before, either.”
“It's not your fault.”
Molly's smile wasn't any happier. “I'm sure you told yourself that a lot over the years.”
Kathy didn't need to say a word.
Molly wished she'd waited for vodka after all. “You want to tell me what you think?”
“I have no crime scene and no victim,” Kathy warned.
“Which means I can't hold you accountable for your hunches. I know. Come on, Kathy. We all have a pretty damn good idea of what's going on. If we're too chicken to put it into words, this guy's gonna decimate South St. Louis before we get him.”
Kathy just nodded. “Your friends the homicide officers agree with you. They said that the Vietnamese community tends to live in two areas, Olivette in the county and the South Grand area in the city. Do you know them?”
“South Grand much better. And if our girl's really Vietnamese, this perp couldn't have picked a more perfect victim. The Vietnamese community down there is pretty insular. The local gangs hold a heck of a lot more sway than the cops do, since the immigrants don't trust the police enough to talk to them.”
“Which means the girl probably hasn't even been reported missing.” Kathy kept looking into her coffee. “But if they're as localized as you say, it could give us a possible hunting perimeter for our man. Guys like him …”
Kathy's training stopped her short of a supposition. Molly waved aside the pause. “Guys like him have a very specific comfort zone. Which means he's playing his game straight from the Dahmer Manual.”
Kathy looked up.
“Just because the chief of detectives wouldn't know a serial killer from a cereal bowl, doesn't mean the rest of us don't,” Molly informed her, leaning forward. “There are certain similarities that can't be discounted.
The bones I'm getting are decorated, just like Jeff decorated his shrine. They've been prepared with Jeff 's favorite chemical cocktail. The only obvious unsolved serial killer we've had in the area was a guy dumping prostitutes along the highway in big boxes. Not at all our boy's signature. So he's been hunting in the area for a while without anybody knowing it. No skeletized remains in wilderness areas, no bodies in drainage ditches. Just, suddenly, body parts. Which means he's probably taking care of all his business close to home and being real careful about disposing evidence. And, if our Vietnamese girl is any indicator, he's picking marginal, easily controlled victims whose disappearance wouldn't cause an immediate out-cry. Just like Jeff. So, what would this guy
not
do if he's been studying at the Dahmer Academy of Toxicology and Taxidermy?”

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