Naked Cruelty (19 page)

“Christ! He is sick.”

The two women were summoned as soon as Nick was fully up to date; Nick found enough amusement to smile, eyes resting on a remarkably restrained Delia, wearing rust, navy and black.

“Why won't you listen when I talk about the source of the Dodo's knowledge about Carew women?” Nick asked, sounding exasperated.

All eyes swung to him. “Hit us,” said Carmine.

“Parties. Delia and I keep telling you that Carew is famous party country. Until Leonie was raped, Mark Sugarman gave regular parties. Mason Novak was another party giver, usually in conjunction with Dapper Dave, as their backyards abut. Von Fahlendorf is too exclusive to be a collaborator, but he has thrown an occasional party. Those four are all Gentleman Walkers, but there are other famous party givers too.”

“Right on, Nick,” said Delia, beaming.

“You've got my ears, Nick. Keep on going,” said Carmine.

“For starters, tongues get loose. The booze flows, and there is always pot. The men are in charm-the-women mode, there are loads of couples huddled in corners or on sofas letting their hair down about themselves. I'm not describing orgies. No one tries to find a place to engage in sex—sex follows after a couple has left the party, if you get my meaning. The party itself is a gab-fest. Talk, talk, talk. Cheap wine or spirits, finger food, loud music, a chance to unwind among like-minded souls. It's amazing what people say about themselves under the influence of intoxicants or hallucinogens, even when people don't know each other. What if the Dodo goes to Carew parties, cruises in search of women he fancies, then gets them in a corner and quizzes them, all charm and honey like a psychiatrist?”

Nick stopped, greeted by a profound silence.

Finally Carmine spoke. “That's a valid theory, Nick. It makes sense. We've found no common threads that would give the Dodo information on any official level, and we know he has his victims summed up. Maybe he can learn enough about a woman at a party—it's surprising how much information can be exchanged in a half hour. He'd also be in a position to steal keys, or take wax impressions of them. All the victims have been outgoing women before they were attacked, and some know Gentleman Walkers well. Mark Sugarman might keep invitation lists—dollars to dimes, he's a hoarder.”

“Well,” said Delia, looking as if she regretted her dreary choice of colors, “pounds to peanuts, the Dodo is a charmer.”

Carmine's eyes creased at the corners in amusement. “Do tell, Delia! C'mon, give us more.”

“He has sufficient animal magnetism to attract whomever he fancies,” she said, cheeks flushed with pleasure, but not forgetting to give Nick a look of intense gratitude. “He gets her into a corner, and persuades her to tell him the story of her life, complete with enough personal details for him to identify her. She tells him about her obsessions—all his victims have been anal types, according to Freud. Perhaps they aren't the full obsessive-compulsive disaster, but they're definitely on the cusp. For instance, none of them would use a public toilet. Hence the Dodo's marching them to their toilets—he knew they'd be dying to go. And that suggests an extremely skilled technique as he quizzed them at a party. He presented as no threat, yet as a masculine man. That's a difficult act.”

“I don't think he sounds very masculine,” Helen said.

“No, dear, you're wrong,” said Delia patiently. “He must be stuffed with masculinity, otherwise women would deem him creepy or slimy. I imagine that he waited until the girl was tiddly, stoned—whatever—before he made his move, so that her tongue was loose and her brain not sufficiently alert to remember the encounter the next day. He's clever, Helen.”

Patrick O'Donnell walked in, his blue eyes bright, his fair and freckled face sober. “Good work finding the table, ladies,” he said to Delia and Helen. “It confirms his techniques, though it doesn't give us any fresh information apart from the condom. Paul is trying to match the color of the greasepaint.”

“Was she drugged?” Carmine asked.

“All the results aren't in, but there's nothing in her blood relevant to the attack. The number of rapes is impossible to tell, but he used his fist more this time. She is shockingly bruised and torn, particularly around the anus. Though it seems he does not attain orgasm, he must be an extremely fit man to sustain so many erections. Fist plays an increasing part, but we know from his living victims that he uses his penis constantly.”

“What about the chains, Patsy?” Carmine asked.

“As he cases their apartments ahead of time, it may be that the brass bed gave him the idea, so we can't write cuffs and chains down as a permanent change in his method. If there is a next time and the bed's an ordinary one, he might use twine.”

“The Dodo is a forensic desert,” Carmine said gloomily.

“Yes, cuz, I'm afraid he is.”

Carmine's phone rang as the meeting broke up. “Don't go!” he barked at Helen as he hung up. “There's a parcel for you at the front desk,” he said. “I've asked that it be sent up. In the meantime, do you have a report on the Warburton twins yet?”

She jumped. “Yes, sir! They're in my notebook.”

“Fetch it, please.”

Her answer was to heft the shoulder bag onto a chair seat, scrabble, and triumphantly produce a thick exercise book bound in navy-blue, with the Holloman PD coat of arms on it. “Here, sir. I put it all in my notebook.”

“Good,” he said, surprised, skimming through it. “What's with the colored inks?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, looking confused. “My own convenience, Captain. Black is for straight narration; crime scenes are in blue, significant facts are red, anything environmental or chemical is in green, and my own theories and hypotheses are in purple.”

He glanced up, face expressionless. “Original,” he said, “but I can see why it's a help. Keep this one for the glass teddy bear, but use a separate notebook for the Dodo. And don't hesitate to get empty ones from Stores.”

“No, sir.” He was curious about her parcel—well, good! She was livid. Which one of her friends was playing a joke? A young cop came in, holding a package not much larger than a matchbox, though he was clearly unsure whether to give it to its addressee, Helen, or Carmine, her boss. Carmine nodded at her, which the cop took to mean he should give it to her. “Sit down, Helen, for God's sake!” Carmine said. “I won't chew you out for opening your parcel. Sit, sit!”

She did so, clumsily, having forgotten her bag was on the chair, but eventually she got herself organized, and sneaked a peek at him as he flicked the pages of her notebook. It was entertaining him. She could see what the unknown joker had sent her. Very well wrapped! Corners squared, the whole exercise done without any scotch-tape—just string, expertly tied. When she got the paper off, she found one of those big matchbox tins that held proper matches—the kind a cowboy used to light by scraping the match on his boot.
Who?
She struggled to open the tin, seeing the point of Carmine's contention on her first day that long nails were not for women cops unless they were Delia's—now her nails, he had explained gravely, could double for crowbars.

Carmine was caught in Helen's narrative—whatever it did or did not do, Miss Procter's taught excellent English: Helen had style. Came a strangled gasp, a choke; he looked up immediately, and in alarm.

Face drained of color, she was staring at him blindly, a sheet of paper in her right hand, the box still in her left.

Carmine moved around his table and took the box before it could fall. Its lid was flopped open, he gaped at an amputated finger. The brown wrapping paper was tipping off her lap, that had to be rescued first.

“What is this?” he barked.

She mutely handed him the paper.

WE HAVE KURT VON FAHLENDORF. YOU HAVE HIS LEFT LITTLE FINGER. INFORM HIS FAMILY THAT THEY ARE TO DELIVER THE SUM OF TEN MILLION AMERICAN DOLLARS TO THE SWISS BANK ACCOUNT WHOSE NUMBER IS ATTACHED. THE SUM MUST BE LODGED BY FRIDAY, 25TH OCTOBER, AT NOON, GREENWICH TIME. IF IT IS NOT PAID, KURT VON FAHLENDORF WILL DIE.

He put the box down on his table carefully. “Have you any reason to believe this finger does belong to Kurt?”

“I don't know,” she whispered.

Carmine picked up his phone, dialed an extension. “Paul, bring your fingerprint gear to my office right this second.” A keen glance informed him that his trainee wasn't going to pass out; her color was returning, awareness filling her eyes.

“Kurt is on a green card, right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then his prints will be on file with Immigration and Naturalization in Washington, D.C. That means we can identify the finger as his or not his very quickly. I think it's best we do this before notifying anyone, from Kurt's family to the FBI.”

“Sir, isn't that weird?
The note was sent to a cop!
It says nothing about not notifying the FBI! Don't they care?”

“It seems not. I agree, Helen. Very weird kidnappers.”

Delia and Nick came in together and froze at once into attention; Carmine gave them the gist of the matter in a few sentences, by which time Paul had arrived.

“Facsimile the print, his name and social security number to the exact right number at Immigration and Naturalization—Nick, get that done, please.”

“Have you had breakfast, Helen?” Delia asked.

“Uh—no, just coffee. I usually wait for morning coffee break and have a Danish.”

“Then there's nought to do until we get word about the identification of the fingerprint,” Delia said briskly. “Paul has the letter, we have a xerox of it, and I suggest we repair to Malvolio's to discuss our moves. Please, Carmine?”

“A good idea,” said Carmine.

The diner was fairly crowded, but they got a big booth down the back and enough privacy to talk. Carmine studied the note. “Typed on an electric machine. The only prints will be yours and mine, Helen. Nor will the wrapping paper yield any information. Delia?”

“It's not an IBM,” said Delia positively. “An Olivetti, I'd guess. The phraseology is educated—succinct and with some attempt at style. The date is European—day ahead of month—and how many Americans are familiar with Greenwich Mean Time? West Germany is an hour ahead of GMT, as I remember, but daylight savings might be a muddle, as various countries finish at quite different dates. The writer is specific—we have Kurt's left little finger. The kidnappers use plural number, but that's usual. Solo kidnappings are mostly women who snatch babies left in buggies at supermarkets.”

“What I want to know,” said Carmine, eating an apple Danish, “is why the ransom note came to you, Helen. The letter makes it clear that Kurt's family hasn't been told—you're to do that. Are you and Kurt so hot an item that his family knows about you? Come on, eat another Danish. You need your strength.”

“I don't know what Kurt may have told his family in Munich,” Helen said soberly, “but here in Holloman we're just an item, rather than a hot one. For instance, we're not lovers, and most of Kurt's colleagues know that. He's thirty-four and looking for a wife, not a mistress.”

“Would his family be under the same impression?” asked Nick.

“It's possible. Last night we had dinner together, and he dropped heavy hints about what kind of engagement ring I'd like. I flew right at him! I'd choose my engagement ring, I said—all my fiancé had to do was pay for it. Typical Kurt, he took that literally. It didn't even cross his mind that I might have been turning his proposal down.” Her eyes filled with sudden tears. “Oh, I'm hard!”

“If you don't want him, hard's better,” said Delia.

“Well, I think we have to assume that Kurt's family deems you his future wife,” Carmine said. “If Delia's right about the note, then the kidnapping is German-orchestrated.”

“The Swiss bank account confirms that,” said Nick. “How would an American gang of kidnappers get inside the fortress of a Swiss bank? Answer: they couldn't. And ten million dollars? That's a massive ransom! The kidnappers must know that we won't get any information out of the bank. I mean, even Nazi gold is still sitting in some Swiss banks, even though everyone must know it will never be collected. Wow, the interest it must have accrued in twenty-plus years!”

“Have you accepted the fact yet, Helen, that if the finger belongs to Kurt, you're going to have to call his family?” asked Carmine. “Is his father still alive?”

“Yes, the Graf is still alive, and I have realized it.”

“Is Graf a first name?”

“No, it's a title. The English equivalent would be Baron. But I won't be calling him, he's too senile. Kurt's sister, Dagmar, runs the family now,” said Helen.

“Fill us in a little on the von Fahlendorfs, Helen.”

“The Graf's first name is Erich. After he escaped from the East he finally got a chance to do something with his Italian wife's fortune—they kept very quiet while Hitler was in power. The Baroness financed the Baron's first factory, in Munich. He was a genius chemist who invented a process for dying synthetic fibers. Now, twenty years later, Fahlendorf Farben has a dozen factories scattered all over West Germany.”