The_Amazing_Mr._Howard (23 page)

His cell phone rang before he was out of the driveway. “This is Willard.”

“Willard, it’s Killgood.”

Margo stood in the front window of the Mason’s house waving. He slouched and turned away to avoid eye contact. “What do you need?”

“Alicia Whitmore called.”

His headache suddenly intensified. “Did she find Jimmy Hoffa this time?”

Killgood grunted. “She says she has information about the case.”

“It’s not my case anymore. Have her contact the FBI. I’m sure those Hoover boys would love to talk to her. They’re always looking for a headline.”

“Fuck the FBI.”

Killgood’s proclamation brought a smile to his face. “All right, Killgood, you’ve got my attention.”

“She’s on her way to the station. Can you drive up?”

“I’ll have to come up with some bullshit excuse for my boss but I’m sure I can think of…” He snapped his fingers. “I got it. Doris had a heart attack yesterday. The doctors did an emergency bypass. I’ll just tell them I need the day off to be with her. No one will miss me.”

“I can believe that. Who’s Doris?”

“My wife.”

There was a long pause. “Your wife had a heart attack and you’re going to work? That’s cold.”

“No, that’s reality. See you in a few.” Willard hung up and called the office. As expected, no one cared if he took the day off. When he retired, there’d be no going away party. No gold watch. No slaps on the back or well-wishes, and he didn’t really give a shit. He tossed the phone onto the car seat and raced toward the highway. For once, having Doris as his wife would pay off.

***

He knocked once and didn’t wait for a response before stepping inside Killgood’s office. Killgood sat behind his desk. Alicia Whitmore occupied one of the two chairs in front of the desk. She sat cross-legged, her skirt rising past her knees. One look at her tall black boots and that annoying Nancy Sinatra song jumped into his head.

He gave a quick nod to Killgood and offered his hand to Alicia. She hesitated before taking it. “It’s good to see you again,” he said, smoothing his necktie while sinking onto the chair.

“I’ve had a vision,” she said. “It came to me this morning while I was stepping out of the shower.”

Why couldn’t I have been there to see that?

He cleared his throat, his gaze journeying to Killgood and back to her. “Is that normal?”

Her left eyebrow arched. “What?”

“Having visions in the shower?”

“A vision can come anytime.”

Yeah, and so could you.

He folded his arms over his chest. “All right, why don’t you tell us about your vision?”

“Well, like I said, I was stepping out of the shower when I saw it.”

“Saw
what
?” Killgood asked.

She stared at her lap. “Stephanie Coldstone.”

“Where did you see her?”

“She was in a dark place. Standing. Arms and legs tied. There were tears on her face.”

Killgood flipped open a small notebook and scribbled something. “Anything else?”

“I heard music. Classical music. Rachmaninoff.”

“How do you know it was Rachmaninoff?” Willard asked.

She turned to glare at him. “I majored in music. I know Rachmaninoff.”

“All right,” Willard said, “go on.”

“Then I saw someone. An older man.”

Killgood glanced up from his notebook. “With Stephanie?”

She nodded. “He was dancing.”

“Dancing how?” Willard said.

“A Viennese Waltz.”

“Let me guess,” Willard said, “you minored in dance.”

Killgood shifted in his chair. “You said this was an older man. Are you certain? Did you get a good look at him?”

“I saw his hair.”

Willard leaned forward and considered her with a critical eye. “That’s it?”

“He had long, silver hair,” Alicia said with a trace of anger in her voice.

Willard straightened. He massaged his brow, a sudden brainstorm driving away his headache. “Did you see where he lived?”

She looked at Killgood who stopped writing and then at him. “A big house. Modern style, like a Frank Lloyd—”

“Wright,” Willard finished for her.

She nodded. “Built against the side of a mountain.”

“Hey,” Killgood said, “I don’t like where you’re going with this.”

“It makes sense,” Willard said. “How many homicide investigations has he assisted on? A dozen or more?”

Blood painted Killgood’s cheeks a deep red. “Just because you don’t like the man, doesn’t mean he’s a killer. I’ve known him for years. He’s been to my house for dinner.”

“Proving what? Ann Rule used to work with Ted Bundy and let him drive her daughter home.” Willard turned to Alicia. “What else did you see in your vision?”

“Blood.”

“What does that mean?” Killgood asked.

“He needed her blood,” she said.

Willard sat up straight, spine pressed against the hard wooden slats of the chair. “The book, the son of a bitch’s book.”

“Would you mind translating?” Killgood asked.

Willard ignored him, his attention focused on Alicia. “In your vision, was this man drinking Stephanie’s blood?”

“Yes.”

“Where did he take it from?”

“A wound on her arm.”

“Did you see how he made the wound?”

Her attention moved between the detectives. “He used a needle.”

His right hand clenched and unclenched.

I knew it. I knew that bastard was the killer.

He needed to talk with Killgood now. Someone had to believe him. “Anything else you can tell us?”

Alicia touched the base of her throat and massaged the skin as she thought. “I can’t think of anything.”

“Did you hear any conversation in your vision?”

“Nothing I could make out. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Willard said. “You’ve been most helpful. You will contact us if you have another vision?”

She stood and smoothed her skirt. “I’ll be sure to do that. Anything else?”

Willard stood and opened the door. “You’re free to go.” As he watched her walk away, he imagined bending her over a table.

“What in the hell just happened?” Killgood asked. Willard reached for a cigarette while dropping onto his chair. “Hey, I told you no smoking in here.”

“Yeah, I remember.” He lit the cigarette and took a long pull. Killgood scowled behind his desk. “I know Mr. Howard’s your friend, but he warrants further investigation.”

“Aren’t you the guy who doesn’t believe in psychics?”

“There’s something about Alicia that makes me think she’s the real deal.”

Killgood leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “All right, let’s hear it.”

He took a quick pull on the cigarette and turned to blow a little cloud of smoke over his shoulder. “Did you ever read Mr. Howard’s book about vampires?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“All right. Let’s start with what we know to be true, agreed?”

Killgood nodded.

“Mr. Howard is approximately sixty years old. He speaks with an accent, possibly Austrian.”

“Can we please skip all the minor details and get to the important stuff?”

Willard took another pull on the cigarette and searched for a place to toss it.
If I couldn’t convince Captain Tate of Mr. Howard’s guilt, how in the hell am I going to make his friend believe it?

Killgood grumbled under his breath and handed him a coffee mug.

“Thanks,” Willard said, crushing the cigarette inside the mug. “I read Mr. Howard’s book on vampires. According to the book, vampires use a needle to draw the blood of their victim. The same way Alicia saw the killer taking Stephanie Coldstone’s blood.”

Killgood leaned forward to rest his elbows on his desk. “The ME found needle marks on one of her arms.”

“Needle marks were found on one of the victims back in Maryland.”

“Was Mr. Howard involved in that investigation?”

“That’s right,” Willard said, “but he didn’t help police locate her body. A flood uncovered her grave before she decomposed. Not only that, she’d been strangled.”

“Just like Stephanie Coldstone.”

He leaped out of his chair, coming face to face with Killgood. “Damn it, man, you heard her, he lives in a mansion in the foothills, has long, silver hair. And don’t forget what the morgue assistant said about Stephanie’s stomach contents.”

“It reminded him of Austrian food and Mr. Howard is from Austria.” Killgood closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So you believe Mr. Howard is a vampire who pretends to be a psychic to throw us off?”

“No, I don’t think vampires are real, but Mr. Howard does, and apparently he believes himself to be one.”

Killgood opened his eyes. “You’d never get a grand jury to return an indictment against him based on anything you’ve said.” He picked up his pen and pointed it toward Willard. “Your supervisor told you the same thing, right?”

Willard slouched in his chair. For a moment he thought he’d turned Killgood against Mr. Howard. Now that support slipped away. “Aren’t you the least bit suspicious of him?”

Killgood picked up the photograph of his kids and stared at the image. “You’ve laid out some interesting facts, but they don’t add up to Mr. Howard being a serial killer. The way I see it, you’ve never liked him and your personal prejudice is clouding your judgment.”

Willard jumped out of his chair again. “You contrary asshole. Prejudice has nothing to do with it. The facts are there if you’ll open your eyes. You’re letting your friendship with Mr. Howard blind you to the truth.”

Killgood gently set the frame down and looked up with a blank expression on his face. He seemed to be staring past Willard, his mind somewhere other than in the room. After several seconds of silence he calmly said, “You’re right, he has been my friend, but that’s not why I won’t investigate him.”

“What is it then?”

“Doesn’t matter. This case belongs to the FBI now.”

“If that’s how you feel, why’d you call me to come up here?”

Killgood stood. “I’m not sure. I thought Alicia might give us something we could use to find Stephanie Coldstone’s killer. I was wrong. Now if you will please excuse me, I have work.”

Willard glared at him. “How many women must die before anyone will listen?”

“When you have something worth hearing, we will listen. Give my best to your wife. I do wish her a speedy recovery.”

Willard hustled from the office and stormed out of the station, head down, his headache returning with a vengeance. Inside his car, he slammed a fist against the dashboard. “Stupid son of a bitch. I hope Mr. Howard rips your heart out, asshole.”

Willard smirked on the inside while taking in the stunned expressions on Dave and Margo’s faces as they stared at their plates filled with steaming vegetables.

“What’s this?” Dave asked, poking at the broccoli.

“Dinner.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Margo said.

“Look at yourselves,” he said. “You could rent your bellies as trampolines.” Dave and Margo exchanged wounded glances. So their feelings were hurt, boo-fucking-hoo. They needed to hear the truth, and he wasn’t in the mood for their nonsense after getting shot down by Killgood. Nothing grated on a cop’s nerves more than knowing a suspect was guilty and not being able to do anything about it. “You’ll get used to eating healthier. You don’t want to end up like your mom, do you?”

Dave’s fork dropped on his plate with a clang. “Speaking of Mom, when are we going to see her?”

“Yeah,” Margo said, “I miss Mom.”

“You miss the piles of crap she serves you. The way I figure, from now on, things will be different. No more candy, no more cookies, forget those late-night snacks. You both will eat healthy foods, and get some exercise.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Margo asked.

“Because you’re big and fat, and no boy is going to want to take you to the prom.”

She pushed out of her chair, tears in her eyes. “Oh, Dad, how could you say such a thing?” She spun around and waddled out of the kitchen like a hungry penguin.

Willard took a bite of his hamburger. Dave shook his head. “What?” Willard asked. “You think I was mean to your sister? You both need to hear the truth. You’re a couple of oinkers, real Porky Pigs, and quite frankly, you embarrass me.”

Dave sipped his water and wiped his lips onto the back of his hand. If his words had hurt him, Dave refused to show it. “We’re going to see Mom tomorrow, with or without you. I can’t believe you haven’t gone to see her today.”

“I already told you, something big came up at work.”

“Bigger than our mother’s health?”

Willard snickered softly. “Honestly, is there anything bigger than your mother?”

Dave scowled. “You can be a real jerk sometimes.” He stood and walked away.

For a brief second, Willard fantasized about shooting his son in the back, the insolent little bastard, but decided it would be too messy. Besides, Margo would hear the shot and come out to investigate, and he’d be forced to waste a bullet on her as well. One day, after his Cabbage Patch Kids lost some weight, they might actually appreciate the hard line he took.

He tossed the half-eaten hamburger down, his appetite gone, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and retreated to the office. Settling in front of the computer, the day’s tension eased as reread the email from the woman on the swinger’s website. Tomorrow, he would entertain the first of many women at his secret love nest.

“Dad?”

Margo stood in the doorway with a sad puppy face.

Jesus H. Christ, I didn’t even hear her open the door. I need to be more careful.

He closed the email. “Knock next time.”

“Do you hate Mom because she’s fat?”

“I hate that she’s fat. Look what it’s done to her.”

She chewed her lip as she thought. “Do you hate me and Dave?”

Her question caught him off guard and it took him a moment to come up with an answer. “I don’t want you to follow in your mom’s footsteps. I don’t want people laughing at you behind your backs.”

“Is that what they do?”

If he was a tactful person, this would have been an opportune time to lie, but instead he said, “People who watched you dancing the other day were laughing at you. They said you’re a hippo and had no business being on the stage.”