Slice (13 page)

T
WENTY-TWO

D
etective Wolfowitz, whose friends called him Wolfie, didn't relish another confrontation with John Manning, but that was what he and his partner, Harry Knotts, were heading toward. The search warrant sat on the seat of the cruiser between them. Manning was sure to be very displeased when Wolfowitz flaunted that in his face. There would probably be another scene, more of his big booming voice raised in anger.

Let him rant
, Wolfie thought.
I just want to see inside that house
.

The police detectives were coming under increasing pressure from the mayor, from the local media, and from people in the street to find the German girl's killer. No one felt safe in their homes, especially not the folks on Hickory Dell. Wolfie kept getting calls from Gert Gorin every time she saw a strange car turn around in the cul-de-sac or spied what she thought was someone lurking in the bushes. The girl's murder had really got the town riled up. People were just beginning to recover from Sayer's Brook's last murder six years ago—when Sammy “Screech” Solek had had his throat sliced by Emil Deetz, Jessie Clarkson's crazy ex-boyfriend.

But that had been a drug deal gone bad. This latest murder, by contrast, seemed to be random and motiveless. The German girl had just moved to town. She had known no one here. Except Jessie Clarkson, of course, and her neighbors.

And Jessie Clarkson was what the two murders had in common.

As Wolfie turned the police cruiser onto Ridge Road, the long stretch that led from the town center out to Hickory Dell, he knew that there were quite a few people who suspected Jessie knew more than she was saying about both killings, and Wolfie had his own suspicions. How could she have lived with Emil Deetz, been pregnant with his kid, and not known what he was doing? How could she have not known where his money came from?

There were some in the department who couldn't accept as mere coincidence Jessie being associated with the last killing in town and then, as soon as she returned to Sayer's Brook, being associated with another.

Wolfie was definitely keeping his eye on Jessie, but his line of reasoning led him elsewhere. Jessie had seemed utterly believable in all of her statements to police, both six years earlier and more recently. Some of the cops didn't think so, but Wolfie did. Maybe that was because, unlike those same cops, he didn't view Screech Solek as the last murder in town. He believed another murder had taken place a couple of years ago.

That of Millie Manning.

Three years ago, he and Harry had been the first on the scene when they'd gotten a call of death out at John Manning's house. Wolfie's ex-wife, Pam, had been a voracious reader of everything Manning had ever written. How many nights had Pam lain beside Wolfie in bed with the light on until two in the morning, her nose in between the pages of a turgid John Manning horror novel? How many times had Wolfie tried to get cozy with her and Pam had brushed him away, caught up in Manning's vampires or witches or ghosts? The bloom might have already been off Wolfie's marriage—he and Pam had been married for eighteen years at that point, and their two daughters had been in high school—but Wolfie still harbored some resentment at Manning for coming between him and his wife. Irrational, maybe. But it was there.

So when he and Harry had arrived at Manning's house to find Mrs. Manning facedown on the concrete, Wolfie had had quite a few questions to ask, and he hadn't always asked them kindly. Where had Mr. Manning been when his wife had supposedly fallen off the back deck? How did he explain that fall? The railing around the deck was very high. One couldn't just stumble and fall off it. It nearly came to Mrs. Manning's shoulders. She would have had to climb up onto it for some reason. Had she been trying to fix something? Get something? See something? Or had she climbed up there in order to jump and kill herself?

Manning had had no answers to any of the questions, except for where he'd been when it had happened. He'd been in his glass casita, writing. So absorbed had he been in his work that he hadn't emerged for several hours, and when he had, he'd found his wife dead on the ground. But when Wolfie had checked out the casita, he'd realized its big windows would have enabled the author to see the back deck of the house quite clearly. Wouldn't his wife plummeting to earth from the third floor of the house be something that might catch his attention?

Manning claimed to have seen or heard nothing. “When I write,” he said with an eerie calm to his voice, “I block out the entire world.”

Wolfie hadn't bought it. But other detectives had concluded that it was possible to sit in the casita, facing a certain way, and not see a woman tumble down onto the deck. And with the music playing that Manning said he listened to as he wrote—that day it was Rachmaninov—he might not have heard anything either.

But how had Millie Manning gotten up onto that railing to fall? Suicide, some detectives had determined. But she'd been in the middle of making a basket. The materials had all been carefully arranged on the deck, and she had completed about half of the basket. Manning's assistant, Caleb, had stated that he'd last seen Mrs. Manning around noon that day, before he'd left to head into the city on errands for his employer. At last glimpse, Mrs. Manning had seemed in a pleasant mood, eager to finish her basket before her class with Monica Bennett that night. She wanted to show all the ladies that she could make a basket on her own.

Wolfie didn't believe she'd stop halfway through to commit suicide.

Unless something had happened. Unless there had been some argument with her husband. But Manning claimed he'd been in his casita all day writing. He hadn't seen Millie since breakfast that morning.

Except, Wolfie suspected, when he'd gone up to that third-floor deck, soon after Caleb had left for the day, and tossed his wife over the railing.

There were no fingerprints on the corpse to prove such a thing. There was not the tiniest scrap of evidence to indicate that Manning had done the deed.

But Wolfie had thought the man far too composed, far too careful in his words and his emotions, to make a convincing grieving spouse. In fact, he'd seemed utterly indifferent to his wife's death. The stories of his affairs with other women, both prior and subsequent to the tragedy, just added fuel to Wolfie's suspicions.

He steered the cruiser onto Hickory Dell.

The death of Millie Manning had been ruled accidental. A few bands of wicker had been found on the ground and in the gutters of the house. It had been a fairly windy day, and some detectives speculated that some of her basket-making material may have blown up onto the railing. Millie may have attempted to climb up and grab a piece that had blown onto an eave of the house and, in doing so, lost her balance and fallen.

But Wolfie didn't believe it.

They passed Mr. Thayer's house on the left, and several yards past that, the home of Bryan and Heather Pierce. Deep green woods filled the spaces between the houses of Hickory Dell. Some of the guys in the department speculated the killer of the German girl could have very easily hidden in the woods after the murder. Even with the moon that night, it got very dark along the cul-de-sac.

But Wolfie suspected the killer had just gone back into his house, washed his hands, disposed of the knife, and waited for the body to be found.

Just as he had three years earlier with his wife.

Sadly, there had been no DNA evidence on the corpse to link anyone to the girl's death. No blood or skin under her nails, suggesting there had been no struggle. There had been no sexual assault. The body had been free of bruises except those minor ones sustained from when she'd fallen to the ground. Her throat had been sliced open with a very specific kind of long razor; if they could find the weapon, the forensics department thought they could easily match it.

Other than the throat, the only other wounds on the body were on the legs. These had puzzled the coroner and the detectives. The same razor that had been used to slit the girl's throat had also been slashed a couple of times across the back of her thighs. She had been wearing shorts, and the blade had sliced her skin cleanly, if not very deeply. The wounds were just superficial, nothing that would have caused too much bleeding. But they would have been painful. Since they had been made before the girl's throat had been slit, the coroner speculated that the attack on her thighs had been used to bring her down. Her throat had been cut while she was lying on the ground, looking up at her killer.

The detectives passed the Gorins' house on the left and turned into the gravel driveway across the street. At the bottom of the hill was the sleek glass-and-metal Bennett house. Farther back on the property, up the verdant hill adorned with daisies and goldenrod, stood the old Clarkson house. Wolfie switched off the cruiser's ignition. They'd park here because there was little room next door. John Manning had an imposing privacy wall surrounding his estate, and the lack of publicly accessible space in front of his house was designed to keep his fans away. So Wolfie figured on parking in the Clarkson driveway and walking over through the small patch of trees that divided the two properties. Besides, he liked the element of surprising Manning.

“Bring the warrant,” Wolfie instructed Knotts as they got out of the car.

Manning had said he'd bid the girl good night and walked her to the gate. She'd only had a few yards to walk through the trees to return home. Afterward, he'd heard no scream, as nearly all of the other neighbors had. He'd had music playing again, Manning explained—this time Chopin, and in his study, not his casita. And he had a corroborating witness this time, his assistant, Caleb. But Wolfie didn't trust Caleb. The young man seemed much too obsequious toward Manning, as if his employer could murder Caleb's own mother and Caleb would lie to cover it up.

Walking through the trees toward Manning's home, Wolfie rued the fact that it had taken so long to get this search warrant. How much evidence had Manning destroyed in the meantime? Wolfie didn't expect to find the murder weapon just sitting out on a counter. But it was crucial to see if there was any blood or DNA in Manning's house. Maybe on his clothes, if he hadn't burned them all. But evidence of burned clothes might be good to discover as well. As soon as they gained access to Manning's house, Wolfie would phone headquarters and a whole team of forensic investigators would descend on the place. Manning would be powerless to refuse.

“Well,” Wolfie said to Knotts as they stood outside Manning's gate. “Here goes. Get ready for a lot of screaming and hollering.”

Knotts just shrugged.

Wolfie reached up and pushed the buzzer.

T
WENTY-THREE

“
A
rthur!” Gert Gorin shrieked, her binoculars pressed up against the window. “Two policemen just pulled up into the Clarkson driveway and are walking into the woods.”

“Gert, for the last time, get away from the window.”

She looked back at him impatiently. “Don't you care if they ever find that girl's killer? I can't sleep at night thinking that beast might be still out there, lurking in the woods.”

“You'll hate when they find the killer because you won't have anything to keep looking for out that goddamn window.”

He didn't even remove the newspaper he was reading from in front of his face as he spoke to her.

Gert returned her eyes to the binoculars. “I think they're going over to John Manning's house. You know, Arthur, I find it very peculiar that he was the last one to see that poor sweet girl alive.”

“You thought she was a lesbian hussy when you met her at the party.”

“I wonder why he killed her,” Gert mused, still searching for any sign of movement across the street, although the policemen had disappeared into the trees. “I mean, I know why he might have killed Millie. She was such a pest to him, always complaining about his book tours, or the pretty fans who threw themselves at him.” She paused, trying to calculate dates in her mind. “Had Manning started his affair with Heather Pierce yet when Millie died? I don't think so. But maybe.”

“Why don't you just call up Heather and ask her?”

“Oh, look!” Gert shouted. “Now Jessie's coming out of her house. And Paulette is there, too. They must be wondering why a police cruiser is in their driveway, but no one came up to talk to them!”

This is getting exciting
, Gert thought.

T
WENTY-FOUR

“T
hey must have gone next door,” Aunt Paulette surmised about the police car. “Guess they had a few more questions to ask Mr. Manning.”

Jessie and her aunt walked back up the driveway. “I just wish they'd find who did it so we could put all of this in the past,” Jessie said, shivering suddenly.

Aunt Paulette stopped walking. “You know, Jessie,” she said, reaching out and taking her niece's arm. “I think . . . I think I see an end to this.”

“What do you mean?”

“The killer . . .” Aunt Paulette gazed over toward the trees that surrounded John Manning's stone mansion. “They're about to find him.”

“You mean . . . Manning?” Jessie asked. “Are you getting some kind of vision or something?”

“I can't be sure,” Aunt Paulette said. “It's just a feeling or a sense I have. They're close to him. They're closing in.”

At that very moment a whole squad of police cars suddenly arrived out front, parking in the street. At least a dozen of detectives, most of them in plainclothes, got out of the cars and swarmed up to John Manning's front gate. Jessie couldn't resist a small laugh.

“Well, Aunt Paulette,” she said, “maybe you're on to something.”

It was her aunt's turn to shiver. “Well, let's hope so,” she said.

They resumed walking up the driveway.

“Do you think Mr. Manning could have had anything to do with it?” Jessie asked. “I mean, all those police cars . . .”

“It's probably just a search of his house,” Aunt Paulette replied. “I understand he refused to let police in—whereas we let them come and go, look anywhere they wanted.”

“I hope he didn't do it,” Jessie said. “I'd hate to think that I let Inga go over there and then he killed her.”

“You couldn't have known, sweetie.”

Jessie bit back the tears. She had cried so often since Inga's death. She didn't want to let loose another waterfall.

Back in the house, she started dinner, trying to put whatever was going on in the house next door out of her mind. She'd make baked macaroni and cheese. Mom's recipe.

“Stay and eat with us?” she asked Aunt Paulette.

“Sure, baby.”

Abby came through the back door.

“Have fun on the swings, Ab?” her mother asked her.

“Yes,” the little girl replied, noticing the block of cheddar Jessie was slicing on the chopping board. “Are you making mac and cheese?”

“I sure am. Your favorite.”

“Gramma's recipe?” Abby asked.

“That it is,” her mother replied.

“I wish you had known your grandmother, Abby,” Aunt Paulette said. “How she would have loved you.”

“I wish I had known her, too,” the little girl mused, snitching a piece of cheese and placing it in her mouth.

“Abby,” Jessie said. “I notice when you play on the swings you talk to somebody.”

Abby nodded.

“Is it a friend of yours?” Jessie asked.

Again Abby nodded.

“What's her name?”

“It's not a girl.”

“Oh?” Jessie asked, cutting the block of cheese into small cubes that she planned to melt in a pan with some seasoned milk. “Then what's
his
name?”

“I don't know.”

Jessie smiled over at Aunt Paulette. “He's just your friend, I guess.”

“Well, actually,” Abby said, seeming to consider her mother's statement, “he's more than a friend.”

Jessie smiled wider. “Oh, really? How is he more than a friend?”

Abby looked up at her with her big round eyes. “He's my brother.”

The knife in Jessie's hand suddenly sliced down into her finger, drawing blood, and she gasped out loud. Not from any pain, or from the blood that now dripped onto the chopping board.

But from Abby's words.

“Jessie!” Aunt Paulette cried, jumping up and running over with a dishtowel. “Are you all right?”

The older woman immediately used the dishtowel to wrap Jessie's finger in an attempt to stanch the flow of blood.

“It's okay,” Jessie managed to say in a small, shaky voice. “It wasn't very deep.”

“Mommy, are you okay?” Abby asked.

Jessie gave her a smile. “Yes, sweetie, I'm fine. Just cut my finger a tiny, little bit.”

She walked over to the sink and, removing the dishtowel, ran water over her finger. The wound was really just superficial.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Abby asked.

“Yes, baby. It's all better now.” She smiled over her shoulder. “Go wash up for supper, okay, Abs?”

“Yes, Mommy,” the little girl said, and hurried upstairs.

“Jessie,” Aunt Paulette said, suddenly at her side.

“Did you hear what she said?” Jessie asked her aunt. “She said she was playing with . . .
her brother
.”

Aunt Paulette knew all about the dreams she'd had, the visions, the terrible guilt she carried with her about her lost twin son.

“Sweetie,” Aunt Paulette said, “little children often play with imaginary siblings. It's nothing to be alarmed about.”

“It was just the way she said it.” Jessie was wrapping a Band-Aid around her finger. “So matter-of-factly.”

“Right now, Abby's going through a difficult time at school. She feels she doesn't have any friends. She sees the Pierce kids, little Piper and Ashton, and she wishes she had a brother, too, someone who would always be with her, and play with her.”

“I suppose you're right,” Jessie said. “Oh, my poor baby.”

“It's just a simple child's game,” Aunt Paulette said.

Jessie nodded. But she couldn't get the image of that swing out of her mind—the way it had seemed to move, entirely on its own.