Sparkle (29 page)

When it was finally time for lunch, Joe went outside and sat on the curb by the van, smoking. He couldn’t have eaten if he’d wanted to.

After thirty minutes he trudged back upstairs, suited up again, and bullied himself for another five hours until the job was done, and done right.

Joe did his final checklist. It was an acceptable cleanup. He trudged downstairs and found the priest.

“I need you to sign off.” He held out a receipt.

“Of course,” the priest said. “Mind if I look around?”

Joe was sure he was going to get called on something, even though he’d done his best. If nothing else, the cigarette smell was probably going to get him in hot water.

“Sure, go ahead and take a look.”

After looking around the sad empty room for a few minutes, the priest turned and smiled at Joe wearily. “This is fine. Thank you. Where do I sign?”

Joe felt a wave of guilt as the priest scribbled his name. To him, it still felt like a room where something stupid and hideous had happened. When Eddie cleaned, it was always as though you were walking into a space that was brand new.

Joe turned and headed down the stairs with a load of gear. So. He’d proven it. He could do it. If he had to, he could do Eddie’s job.

He’d be damned if he was ever going to do it again.

But as he was loading the gear into the van, it hit him that he’d promised Detective Louis they’d do another little job tomorrow. Single head shot. Joe’s head dropped onto the steering wheel.

Joe and Eddie’s financial situation wasn’t that great. They’d had a few decent jobs recently, but not enough to live on for long. Joe had a thousand bucks or so in cash stashed in his dresser, and another couple thousand in the bank, but that wouldn’t last long. If Eddie couldn’t stay on track, couldn’t get his shit together, then Joe would have to find a new way to support them.

As far as tomorrow went…well, a promise was a promise. He was furious about it, though. If Eddie couldn’t make it, he’d have to do it. But that was it. After that, no more. If Eddie couldn’t get it together, Sparkle Cleaners was going to fold.

Joe slammed the back door of the van as hard as he could to punctuate the point. It bounced back and almost hit him. To add a final touch to this perfectly shitty day, Detective Bjorgeson drove up, parking her unmarked Crown Victoria behind the van as Joe was closing it up.

“You’re finishing up kind of late, aren’t you?” It was six-thirty. “I called the priest and he said you were still here. Where’s your boss?”

“Eddie wasn’t feeling too good today.” Joe struggled with the doors. It felt as though something might be bent.

“What’s wrong? He okay?”

Joe was too burned out to tell Pinky anything but the plain truth. “You got me,” he said. “He woke up with his head all banged up. Hurt himself sometimes.” He finally got the door to shut. He turned around and tapped out a Pall Mall, then held the package out in Bjorgeson’s general direction.

“People stopped smoking those about thirty years ago, Joe,” Pinky said.

“Whatever.”

Bjorgeson took one of the long, filterless cigarettes and lit up. “That’s strange. About Eddie, I mean.”

“Think so?”

“Did he run off again?”

“I d-d-don’t know, Detective,” Joe said, looking at her pale, inscrutable face for the first time. He gritted his teeth to keep from stuttering. “I’m really, really ready for today to be over.”

“Yeah, sure. Actually, I came by to give you some interesting news.” Bjorgeson looked at him hard. “That half a receipt Eddie found at the Red Lotus. I don’t know what possessed Louis—I thought it was useless—but the thing had a partial thumbprint on it, see? In the blood. Only visible in blacklight. He made me compare it against every victim in the place. Major pain in the ass, thank you very much. We had to go to the morgue for the prints.”

“Sorry for the trouble,” Joe said. He didn’t sound convincing.

“Yeah, well, it’s not called trouble when it’s something.”

“You l-lost me.”

“I thought the print maybe matched one of the victims. Louis disagreed—and he’s the boss. And he’s probably right. Since it was in blood it could have made by the shooter. Unless someone else just dropped in to watch. There’s not quite enough to run through the database—but if we ever get a solid suspect and it’s a match, it might end up being the most solid evidence we’ve got. That and some fibers we found under one of the victims fingernails.”

“So…it really was evidence?” Joe rubbed his face, hard. “Eddie found actual evidence?”

“Seems that way. Kind of blew me away.”

Joe looked at Bjorgeson and his throat went dry. “Oh shit. You feel like getting blown away again?”

Pinky just looked at him. Joe reached into his pocket, pulled out the rubber glove, and unfolded it carefully.

“I damn near forgot about this. I didn’t s-see how it could be anything. But, n-now I’m not so sure.” He gingerly held out the glove, the crumpled scrap of paper visible.

“Don’t fuck with me, Joe. You’re definitely not at your best when you’re trying to be funny.”

“I’m not in a funny mood. Eddie got coherent just long enough this morning to give me this. It’s another half a receipt. Also from the Goodwill. But get this. Eddie said he found it at the Silver house.”

“What?”

“He said he found it at the Silver house. That last m-m-multiple.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Just take it. I know it’s crazy. Do whatever you want with it. Maybe they’ve got cameras. It has a date and a time. And I think it might even have credit card info. Eddie’s no detective but he doesn’t tell lies. He’s not capable. If he says he found it in the Silver house he might have found it on M-m-mars, for chrissake. But he believes he got it at the Silver house—so maybe he did.”

Pinky reached out and took the glove like she was picking up a dead rat.

“You don’t think the same guy did both jobs, do you?”

Joe climbed into the van, shut the door, and rolled down the window. “I don’t think about shit like that, Detective. I’ve got enough problems of my own.”

“I don’t blame you.” Pinky gave Joe something like a conspiratorial smile. “So what do you want me to do with this?”

“That’s not my job, Detective. I’m just a cleaner, okay?” Joe blew smoke out the window.

Pinky sighed and looked at the lump in her hand like it was a piece of crap. Finally, she put it in the side pocket of her jacket. She shook her head. “You guys are something else, you know that? What are we going to do with you?”

Joe started the van.

Pinky forced a tight smile. “You still going to clean up that little head shot tomorrow?”

“Can’t afford not to. “ Joe blew more smoke in Pinky’s direction.

“Maybe I’ll come by and check on Eddie.”

“It’s a nice thought, but it’s n-n-not necessary.” Joe put the van in gear.

“Not so fast.”

“What now?” Joe sighed.

Bjorgeson dug in her pocket. “Here’s the twenty Louis owes you. He asked me to give it to you.”

“I told you he could forget about that.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t feel like it.”

“Fine. Thanks.” Joe took the bill, rolled up the window, and drove off.

Bjorgeson watched him go.

She pulled the blood-specked receipt out of her pocket. There was a partial account number on it. She looked shocked for a moment. How in the hell could this be possible?

Chapter 44

Eddie never moved. LaVonne could only sit there watching him for so long. One thing she’d always hated was hanging around doing nothing. The house was already clean. No books. No magazines. She didn’t feel like spending another day in front of Joe’s tiny TV. She’d been doing her best to avoid talking to Vonelle about Joe, but the thick silence in the little house set her teeth on edge. LaVonne had a nearly irresistible urge to call the one person who knew her best and spill her guts about the weird way the relationship was unfolding—even though she knew she wouldn’t like hearing what Vonelle would have to say about it.

She sat down at the kitchen table, pulled out her cell and started to call, but put it down almost immediately. LaVonne stared at the phone for a minute, imagining the ten different and colorful ways Vonelle would say “I told you so.” Then she had an idea. She dialed 411.

“Seattle,” she said. “City parks department.”

It was a satisfying waste of time. After sitting on hold for fifteen minutes, getting transferred from person to person, being accidentally cut off and having to go through the whole thing again, then getting a totally different non-city number and going through a similar process there, she finally tracked down a real—and friendly—human being who told her gratefully and in detail how to sign Joe up to coach Little League.

It ate up a solid hour and made her feel a bit better.

When she looked in on Eddie he hadn’t moved a muscle “Sweet dreams, honey,” she said. Then she sighed, went upstairs, and made herself something to eat. Pretty much the only things she could find were bread, mayo, and tuna. She made a sandwich and ate it as slowly as possible.

By the time she’d finished and cleaned up, it was barely noon. LaVonne knew Joe and Eddie made it a practice to knock off at 5:00 p.m. Joe wouldn’t be home until 5:30 at the earliest. A long time to kill. She called Joe, but he wasn’t answering his cell.

LaVonne decided that it would be nice to make dinner for him when he got home. She’d already looked through the fridge and cupboards. The situation was bleak. She checked on Eddie again. Clearly, he wasn’t going anywhere. She decided it would be safe to go shopping. She had a couple of other quick errands she needed to do for herself. A couple hours away wouldn’t make a difference to Eddie—but it might keep her from going nuts.

She looked in on him one last time.

“You stay put,” she said. “I’m going to the store to get some groceries for dinner. If you wake up, you can have some, too. It’s going to be good.”

It almost looked like Eddie moved his lips, but she couldn’t be sure. She went up the stairs and out the door, locking it behind her.

The minute LaVonne was out the door Eddie opened his eyes. Lucy Silver was standing next to his bed, looking at him accusingly.

“You haven’t done much,” she said. “You haven’t done anything. I’m stuck and I hate it. You promised.”

Lucy’s words hit Eddie in the head like little hammers—but they also flooded him with compelling energy. He sat up on the couch and looked at her. She looked solid. And disappointed. Along with the pounding in his head, looking at her made his insides sink and ache horribly—but the sensation was strong enough that it provided some blessed distraction from the unspeakable thing that had happened at Jolie’s.

Lucy faded and disappeared, but Eddie felt as though he was being urgently pushed and pulled by little hands as he got up off the couch and dressed himself. He was moving more quickly than he usually did at home, with the grace and surety he normally had only at cleaning jobs. But he wasn’t directing the motion. It was as if Lucy was inside him now, dragging him along.

“Man-sized mess,” he said. Then he dialed for a cab as he’d done the night before. It was easier this time, and in addition to reciting his address he was able to tell the dispatcher to send the cab as soon as possible.

Outside the house, Eddie stood patiently waiting for the cab, but felt Lucy’s impatience strongly. Slowly, it dawned on him where she wanted him to go.

The killer was smart and self-aware enough to know—mostly—what weaknesses threatened detection. The biggest one was the lack of control a hunger for killing could trigger. It was a potent form of intoxication one had to work constantly to avoid. Such hunger only exists in the temporarily or permanently insane, and in those who are obsessed with revenge. In the killer’s case, it was the latter that had driven nearly two decades of killing. It wasn’t a deep, singular form of revenge, but a broad, indicting vendetta against a system that had taken away the better half of the killer’s existence. So much injustice to be corrected—it was understood the results would never amount to more than pissing in the ocean. But it was something.

For all these years, the killer been able to create the illusion that the most of the murders were the work of different men, and that was an added dose of justice, because most of the men deserved punishment. Maybe not for what they went down for—but always for something. That took a good imagination, steel nerves, and an outstanding memory.

The killer knew just about everything it was possible to know about the investigations—and the investigators. Even about Joe and Eddie. From the first time they’d come under the radar, the idea of the crime scene cleaners held an odd appeal. It was easy to imagine they were working for the same cause, making the process nicer, more respectable by cleaning up after. All along they’d shown themselves harmless, even useful—but there was something about Eddie, something deep and primal that grew over time until he considered putting the cleaner on his special list. The disgust he felt when he saw Eddie had a tinge of fear in it, an animal recognition of a natural enemy.

One weakness the killer had never really been aware of was the routine of buying killing clothes—especially absorbent (and disposable) wool overcoats—at local thrift stores. Every item of clothing would be burned after every job. Funds were by no means unlimited. It didn’t register as a problem. The favored stores were so big and the clientele so foreign that they provided a sense of anonymity and safety.

Today, browsing the racks of the huge junk store, thinking about the next job—a particularly unpleasant but necessary task—a powerful feeling of unease emerged.

The killer looked up the way people will when they are being watched. Eddie walked into the store—far away and looking as though he was walking in a dream—and the killer almost jumped. Even though the fear was entirely irrational, the killer hurried as quickly as he could into a dressing cubicle and shut and locked the door.

Eddie drifted into the big store still feeling as though Lucy was pulling him along. Something beyond odd was happening to his senses now and he was nearly blind. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see, but that all his attention was focused on the overwhelming menage of scents that filled the air. It was a wild place to be in that state, intoxicating with every kind of sweat and perfume, every race, sex, and age, overlayed with the musty, stale odors of thousands of possessions used and discarded.