The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (16 page)

"Anything else?"

"I understand in prison his partner decided to
change his story and took all the blame, and the governor himself
pardoned Felix."

"So you're convinced he was innocent?" said
Carl.

"Of course. Felix isn't the kind of man to do
something like that. He's too much of a man to go around cutting
corners and doing shoddy workmanship. That's just not him."

After the lunch Laura considered going back to the
office but since her calendar was clear for the afternoon and she was
bushed she decided against it. A nap would be good, plus she needed a
little extra time to get ready for the evening with Felix. She turned
onto Race Street and drove through Chinatown down to Delaware Avenue,
then headed for home.

All the talk about Felix during lunch had, face it,
more than intrigued her. From the moment they had met at Lagniappe
she had found him extremely attractive. There was something just a
bit dangerous, distinctly exciting about those finely etched features
and dark beard. More than once since then she had found herself
thinking about what it would be like to be kissed by him, to feel his
beard and his lips against her . . . Obviously from the lunch
exchanges she wasn't the only one with such thoughts. His ex,
Cynthia, and Missy Wakefield were, it seemed, only a face slap short
of pistols at dawn over him. However, for tonight, even though it was
strictly for business, Laura had the inside track and she had to
admit it made her feel good. Dinner and drinks seemed like a real
date. It had been a long time since she'd been out with a man who
wasn't just a friend, and she was
looking
forward to it . . .

She was in a good mood as she easily found a parking
place on Front Street and walked the short distance down Emily to her
house. Inside, she proceeded to the refrigerator, where she chose a
beer instead of a white wine or seltzer. A small indulgence, but at
least a beginning . . . Upstairs, she started the water for her bath,
then went down the hall to her bedroom, where she took her time
undressing, hanging up or consigning to her laundry bag as she went.

When she was down to bra and panties she went to her
bureau to lay our fresh ones. She chose a matching set in light blue,
all lace and shine, and laid them on the bed. Then on impulse she
took out a matching garter belt and hooked it behind her. Even
without stockings, just the feel of it around her waist and the
straps hanging down made her feel more feminine—no, sexy.

She crossed the room and closed the door. On the back
of the door was a long mirror, and she stood there, studying her
reflection. For a moment she thought about Felix seeing her like
this. She crossed her arms in front of her and began to run her
fingers up and down her arms, causing goose pimples wherever she
touched. Her fingers strayed to the lightly freckled flesh below her
collarbone. As she watched herself in the mirror, her hands moved
down, pausing momentarily to touch her breasts. She arched her back,
running her hands over her ribs and flat stomach and back up again,
but stopping short of her breasts. A slight shudder passed through
her body, and then her expression abruptly changed as she forced
herself to reach behind and unclasp her bra. Crossing her arms again
in front of her, she slid first one strap down and then the other,
still holding the bra in place as she watched herself in the mirror,
as though some magic transformation had taken place since the last
time. But of course it hadn't.

Slowly she lowered the bra. On her right side was a
breast with a full pink nipple, with no more sag or stretch marks
than on the breast of any other normal woman in her thirties. On the
other side there was no breast. Just a series of crisscrossing scars
she had wryly dubbed "Forty Miles of Bad Road," from the
Duane Eddy song of her younger days.

A simple mastectomy was what her doctor had called
it. The cause, a small lump, painless to the touch, whose only
outward sign was a slight dimpling of the skin over it. But under the
skin it was a malignancy.

Her mother had said it happened because she had
angered God, that she had turned her back on her destiny as a woman
to chase after a career and He had punished her for it. Her mother
was Texas Gothic, but she had to admit there were a lot of womanly
things she wished she'd done with her body before that day when it
betrayed her . . . things she had put aside for her career and, like
discarded toys, had never come back to again.

She turned away from the mirror. There had been a
moment after the operation when she had bravely tried to have sex
with Phil, a pipe-smoking professor who was her occasional lover. He
tried bravely, too, but in the end the sight of her made him
impotent, and the look on his face told her more than she needed to
know. When she still tried to talk about it he said the thought of
her operation made him feel old and too mortal. She hated him for
that, for his weepy pseudo-sensitivity, but worse, she hated him for
being the one to tell her that now she was no-man's land . . .

She started for the bathroom, the blue garter belt
now lying on the floor like another of those discarded toys.
 
 

CHAPTER 13

THE MEMBERS of Seven Squad were beginning to look the
worse for wear. One set of bags under the eyes now appeared to be
two. Sloan was no exception. Even though he seemed to be over his
flu, exhaustion had set in.

Not so with Detective Mary Kane. The late hours she'd
been keeping with Detective Spivak didn't seem to be bothering her.

"Kane, is there some sort of magic vitamin
you've been taking?" Sloan said.

"l'm sorry, lieutenant?"

"Look around you. Everybody in this room looks
like they're running on fumes. And then there's you. What gives?"

"I cannot tell a lie, sir. It doesn't take too
much out of a girl to spend evenings having dinner in a swanky
restaurant with a handsome man."

To jeers and catcalls her partner Spivak said, "Eat
your heart out, peasants."

A good bunch, the veterans of Seven Squad, thought
Sloan. Evans, Rafferty, Spivak, Kane. None except himself were
handpicked, but what a luck of the draw to get them. They worked
together as a tight, happy unit.

"All right, comedians, let's get to it. What did
you turn up about Peter from the families and friends of the other
missing girls?"

Silence, then Rafferty took the floor. "Not a
goddamn thing, lieutenant. Not a word, not a whisper."

"Suggestions," said Sloan.

"Maybe it's not the same guy. Maybe he was only
connected with Terri DiFranco and the other two missing girls and
there's some other explanation for the rest of the disappearances,"
said Spivak.

"Don't you believe it," growled Rafferty.
"It's the same guy."

Sloan had to agree with Rafferty. Although the
solution Spivak posed was theoretically plausible, he didn't believe
it, didn't feel it. Experience told him the unknown Peter was
responsible for all of them. He'd been to the well too often to doubt
it seriously.

"If it was him in each case, why'd he change his
method?" asked Spivak.

Kane spoke up. "Maybe it's a progression. For
some reason the increased risk of getting to know the girl first,
getting her to care about him, and all the time knowing he was going
to kill her, gives him a bigger thrill. I mean, that's what I think
we're talking about here . . . a rocks-off thrill killer. A little
more individual style than most, but that's what he is."

"What about the early girls?" said Sloan.

"He was nervous then," said Kane. "In
a hurry. He'd just pick them up, get them in the car, and wham-bam.
But as he went along he began to need more. The quickie wasn't enough
for him anymore. He needed more danger, more involvement, more
build-up."

"You turning into a shrink, partner?"

"Quiet, let her talk," said Sloan.

"Well, of course I'm speculating, but what I
think is that he feels nothing, and what passes for emotion with him
is some sort of warmth he gets from having these young girls fall for
him. Kind of like a snake. Cold-blooded, you know. Picks up on the
heat of his surroundings instead of generating it himself."

"Well," said Spivak, "if he gets off
having these girls fall for him, why kill them? Why not keep them
around? Enjoy them?"

"Kane?" said Sloan.

"Maybe he's impotent. When push comes to shove,
you gentlemen should forgive the expression, he isn't there. He's
humiliated, figures they're laughing at him, and then he goes into a
rage and kills. We all know this is a common sort of pattern with
rapists."

"Any other comments," said Sloan.

"The cold-blooded part sounds right," said
Evans.

"We'll reserve judgment," said Sloan. "What
do you have to report on your evening at Lagniappe?"

"Zero," said Kane.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. We've kept our eye on Justin Fortier,
the owner, and chatted with other customers. Fortier still seems
clean, nothing against him except the waitress' vindictive
accusations. Everyone else, even his wife, seems to think the world
of him."

"Okay," Sloan said wearily, give it another
miss for a few days at Lagniappe. Maybe somebody is on to you and
staying under wraps. Meanwhile, hit the streets. Theory's grand, but
so far Peter is having his way with us. Not to mention these girls.
Let's get the bastard."
 
 

CHAPTER 14

MARIE ONLY made it as far as the park on Fourth
between Morris and Tasker before she had second thoughts about going
to Costello's to see the gang.

The coolness of the night had driven the younger kids
out of the park, and she had it to herself. Climbing on top of the
large stone turtle, she sat there for a long while, smoking one
cigarette
after another.

With Terri's death constantly on her mind, the world
had changed for her. Excitement and pleasure were gone, replaced by a
sleepy sort of sadness that kept her moving zombielike through the
days. Days had passed since she had talked with that Laura from the
newspaper, and everything she had been promised was true. Her name
wasn't in the paper, but people found out and no one hated her for
coming forward with her story about Terri's death. In fact, people
had treated her like she
was a hero.

The police had questioned her, had shown her mug
shots of criminals and pictures of cars in hopes that she could
identify one or the other. The car was easy, but Peter . . . when she
couldn't find him in the pictures they brought in an artist. But no
matter how many times they worked on it he could not capture Peter on
paper. Still, in spite of her failure to identify him, the police had
always gone out of their way to make her feel appreciated and safe.

At home, her parents had been kinder than she had
ever thought possible. Her mother had bought her a new Phil Collins
album from the K-Mart, and her father had gone so far as to take the
whole family out to dinner at the Triangle Tavern during the week and
had even stayed sober enough on Saturday night to go to Mass with
them on Sunday.

Likewise, during the week she had enjoyed a special,
unaccustomed popularity with the kids at school. Before, she had been
the dumpy kid with the glasses who was friends with Terri. No more.
But it couldn't make up for losing Terri. Her best friend. And when
you came down to it, she had deserted Terri when it counted most.
Even though no one had said it, she knew Terri must have screamed,
must have struggled, and if she hadn't left because of a little rain
she could have saved her best friend's life. She thought of going to
confession but gave it up because she had never liked the old priest
who was sure to be on the other side of the booth. The dandruff that
was always on his shoulders put her off, and she knew that a penance
of Hail Marys, even if it was in the hundreds, could never bring
absolution for the way she'd deserted Terri. She had tried praying,
too, but it hadn't helped. Maybe if she could confess to one of the
sisters it would be different. They could be so strong; they would
know which punishment was right. But she couldn't do it so it was all
just blowing smoke, as her father would say.

The only thing that made sense to her was a story on
the six o'clock news about two sets of New Jersey teenagers who had
joined together in a suicide pact leaving behind a videotape of the
whole thing. She'd run out to buy a paper to get the full story and
now carried the clipping everywhere she went. Now sitting there on
the stone turtle in the darkness, she took it out of her pocket but
couldn't make out the headline. Still, just holding it somehow made
her feel better . . . It was true, to kill yourself was a mortal sin
and you went to hell for it, but that was all she could expect
anyway. There was no forgiveness for deserting Terri. Maybe if God
was the merciful God she'd always been taught about he'd let her
spend time in purgatory with Terri. It didn't seem like too much to
ask.

During the week her thinking had got beyond whether
she deserved to die or not. She knew the answer to that one. The
question was whether she would have the nerve to take her own life
when the time came.