The_Amazing_Mr._Howard (7 page)

He grunted as he passed. Detective Sanderson approached from the bathroom, tucking in his shirt over his round belly. “How’s that Coldstone investigation coming along?”

Willard grunted again. “It’s coming,” he said, and ducked inside his office. He let out a sigh after closing the door. Sanderson shook his head on the other side of the glass and continued walking toward Heather. He stopped behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. His fat fingers dug into her flesh like tarantulas making a kill. A clear case of sexual harassment. Instead of complaining, she closed her eyes, head rolled back, lips pursing as she started to sway from side to side like an exotic dancer riding a pole.

That son of a bitch gets the sexy girl and I get Doris.
Willard looked to the ceiling.
Thanks a lot, God.

He tore into work but couldn’t stop thinking about the drama at breakfast. Doris had marched into the kitchen, the muscles in her face taunt, eyes ablaze. She pulled a gravy bowl from the cabinet, banged it onto the counter, and poured in Lucky Charms until they spilled over the top. He considered asking if she really believed they were magically delicious as she plopped onto a chair at the far end of the table. They ate in silence for several minutes before she announced, “Why didn’t you come to me last night? I got all dolled up for you. Am I not good enough for you anymore?”

The last time they had sex felt like rolling around on one of those exercise balls. By the time it was over, he was battered and bruised.

“I’m tired,” he said, without looking up. “This case I’m working on is… difficult.”

“You think I’m stupid. You think I’m a stupid, fat pig.”

“I never said you’re stupid.”

She pushed out of her chair, which screeched across the linoleum floor. “If you were half the man you think you are, then maybe, just maybe I’d try keeping myself in shape. In a world of foot-longs, I ended up with a cocktail wiener.”

Now inside his office, his gaze traveled to his lap. “Cocktail wiener my ass.”

He picked up the phone and dialed Baltimore PD. The phone rang five times before a woman answered. “El-oh, Baltimore Homicide.”

“This is Detective Willard from the Colorado State Police. I left a message for Investigator Hollingsworth to—”

“Ol-on hon, I’ll patch you through.”

A man answered in a deep voice. “Hollingsworth.”

“Investigator Hollingsworth, this is Detective Willard from—”

“I know who you are. What can I do for you?”

Willard spread his notes across the desk. “I’m working on a missing person case.” He tapped a photograph of Stephanie Coldstone and let out a breath.

“What does this have to do with Baltimore?”

“Are you familiar with a professor who claims to be a psychic?”

“Mr. Howard.”

Willard felt like a child on Christmas morning. “Yes, you remember him.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I found information on a case where he helped locate the body. A girl named…” Willard pushed through his notes looking for the printout.

“Janet Harking—discovered buried on the Antietam battlefield.”

“That’s right. Did you ever make an arrest in that case?”

“No.”

Willard leaned onto his thighs and massaged his forehead. “Did Mr. Howard ever provide information that led to an arrest?”

“Never.”

He waited several seconds before asking, “Did he assist your department on more cases?”

“On the record, no. Off the record, nine.”

“Nine? Wow, that’s more than I expected. Any missing person cases?”

“As I recall, they were all missing until they turned up dead.”

Willard picked up a pen and turned it between his fingers. “What do you know about Mr. Howard?”

Hollingsworth laughed softly.

“What did I say?”

There was a moment of silence. “You’ll drive yourself crazy, Detective, trying to find out about Mr. Howard. What I can tell you is he’s a brilliant man. He worked at the university for a number of years.”

“What’s a number?”

“Ten or twelve, I think.”

“And before that?”

“I couldn’t say. The son of a bitch is a phantom. No background. No records.”

Willard stopped turning the pen and clicked the button several times. “He has an accent… European… maybe German or Austrian.”

“Yeah, I seem to remember that as well.”

“Was he much assistance in your investigations?”

“Mr. Howard helped us find their bodies. We might not have done that without him.”

“So he provided clues that led to their bodies, anything else about the victims or a possible suspect in their murders?”

“The M.E. was unable to determine the cause of death.”

Willard used the pen to scratch behind an ear. “I’m not following you.”

“By the time we found their bodies they were skeletons.”

“But they were murdered?”

“I would think so, unless they figured out a way to bury themselves.”

Heat crept up the back of his neck into his cheeks.
Hollingsworth must think I’m a moron to ask such a question.
“Did Mr. Howard give you a lot of information about the women, other than about their burial sites?”

“Sure, he told us all kinds of things, but we couldn’t use any of it.”

Willard tossed the pen on the desk. He picked up his notes from the last interview with Mr. Howard. “Was he able to provide the women’s names before you mentioned them to him?”

“Yes and the names of their family members.”

“Boyfriends?”

“Boyfriends, male acquaintances, names of co-workers, teachers, shall I go on?”

“And none of them ever checked out?”

“We never liked any of them as suspects.” Hollingsworth sighed. “Don’t waste your time trying to figure out how he does it. Psychics don’t think like the rest of us.”

“You’re assuming he’s really a psychic,” Willard said.

“Have you ever come up with information that led to the discovery of nine graves?”

“No.”

“Well, he has, so that qualifies him as a psychic to my mind.”

“To your knowledge, has Mr. Howard ever been in trouble with the law?”

Hollingsworth sighed again. “Detective Willard, I’ve already warned you not to try figuring out how he does it.”

The door to the office opened and Captain Tate stepped inside. He went straight to one of two chairs positioned in front of Willard’s desk and sat, arms folded over his chest. With his salt and pepper hair, thin mustache, and black eyeglasses, he looked more like a banker than a cop. His chiseled face a grim mask. Willard had more questions to ask Hollingsworth, but this wasn’t the time. “I’m going to have to let you go, Detective, but perhaps I can call again at a later time.”

“You can call, but you’ll never get the answers you’re looking for.”

“Thanks again.” He hung up.

Tate gestured toward the phone. “Was that about the Coldstone case?”

He straightened the paperwork on his desk. “No.”

Tate frowned. “You saw the psychic last night?”

“I took him some of the girl’s things.”

“And?”

“He made a few statements.”

“Such as?”

“Most of the information was useless. He named her family and David Rice. Mentioned something about Stephanie riding in David’s car on a trip into the mountains.”

Tate twirled one end of his mustache. “Interesting. Did he describe Rice’s car?”

“He called it a white car with red stripes.”

“And is it?”

Willard chewed the inside of his lip. “Yes.”

“You consider that information useless?”

“Anyone with an interest in the case could have learned what kind of car he drives.”

Tate stopped twirling his mustache. “You’re assuming Mr. Howard has a reason for doing this. It’s my understanding he’s assisted in prior investigations without seeking publicity.”

“I found an article about work he did in Maryland.”

“But you have no evidence he contacted whoever wrote the article.”

“That’s right,” Willard answered.

“And has he contacted anyone in the media here?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Tate’s tongue clicked on the roof of his mouth. “Then we should assume Mr. Howard’s only interest in this case is to assist us.”

Willard slumped in his chair.

“Did Mr. Howard tell you anything not available to the general public?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “He described a poster on the ceiling in Stephanie’s room.”

“So, you would say it’s possible Mr. Howard does, in fact, have psychic powers?”

“I couldn’t say at this time.”

“Because you don’t want to believe he does.” Tate stood. “The Coldstones have powerful friends. Powerful friends who can make life miserable for this department. You believe she’s dead, don’t you?”

“She’s not the kind of kid who’s going to run away.”

“Do you think Mr. Howard can help us find her?”

“He has helped other departments find bodies.”

“Are you scheduled to interview him again?”

Willard shook his head. “He asked to see more of Stephanie’s belongings. I hate to ask her parents, they’re pretty torn up about her. It feels like I’m giving them false hope.”

“Unfortunately, Detective, we’re in the business of giving false hope. Go see the Coldstones.” Tate left the room.

When the door closed behind him, Willard slammed a fist onto his desk.

Mr. Howard parked and turned off the engine. Bottle of Romanee Conti in hand, he climbed out and strolled up the sidewalk. Killgood lived in a modest two-story house in an older neighborhood on the west side of town with mature shade trees and weed-choked lawns. The kind of place you’d expect to find a veteran cop. This wasn’t his first time visiting the Killgood’s, but each occasion felt like an adventure. Other than faculty events, he didn’t get out much.

He rang the bell three times before Reann answered the door in a pair of sunglasses. Tall and slender, she had a body you wanted to coil around and squeeze. If Michelangelo were alive, he would create a marble statute in her likeness and rub up against it. Shoulder-length black hair framed a heart-shaped face. Full lips eased into a seductive smile. “I was wondering when you were going to get here.” She stepped aside.

He moved into the entry, noting a bruise hidden behind her sunglasses and a generous amount of makeup. To his left, a small room served as Killgood’s office. He painted the walls blue as a reminder he had never visited the ocean. He was in love with the idea of the sea and often spoke of living in a beach house. Paintings on the wall depicted ocean scenes. The wallpaper border featured nautical flags. Models of sailing ships sat on the desk and bookshelf. He even had a lighthouse in a glass bottle that made the sound of a foghorn and a ship’s bell when you lifted the cork top.

“I do wish your father would make that trip to the ocean.”

She sighed. “Me too.”

“Do you still investigate ghosts?”

A few years back, Reann accompanied high school friends on a ghost hunt at a local cemetery. She swore the ghost of a woman appeared between the headstones. After that, she became obsessed with spirits. She launched her own ghost hunting group and they traveled around the state, spending the night in haunted houses and graveyards.

She looked down at the floor. “Not as much. Ryan thinks I’m crazy.”

His eyes narrowed as he tried to remember where he had heard that name before.

“My ex-boyfriend,” she said as if reading his mind. “Dad hates him.”

He nodded. “I see. So, how is your ghost book coming along?”

Her head came up. “I write when I have time.” She gestured toward the back of the house. “Everyone’s outside.”

“I smelled the swordfish grilling when I arrived. Your father is an excellent cook, yes?”

Reann walked past him. “Sure, when he’s not burning the food.”

He followed the sway of her hips as she led him into the kitchen. “Your father showed me a picture of Gail. She is a beautiful child.”

She peeked over her shoulder and smiled. “Thanks.”

“Is she here?”

“She’s with Ryan, but he’s supposed to drop her off soon.”

They already act like a divorced couple and they never married.
“I am anxious to meet her.”

Reann opened the sliding glass door. “Look who’s joined us.”

Porch lights cast a white glow over the deck. Midges and gnats swarmed around the bulbs. Susan sat beside sixteen-year-old Michael at the table. She beamed upon seeing him. “Hello, stranger, it’s been years.”

Killgood stood near the grill wearing an apron. Gray smoke swirled around him. Five swordfish steaks sizzled nearby. He turned and smiled. “There you are. I was starting to think you wouldn’t show up.”

Michael pushed out of his chair. “Hey, Professor, what’s happening?”

Mr. Howard shook his hand. “The last time I was here, Michael wore diapers. Now look at him, taller than me.”

Susan glided over and held out her arms. He brought her close, her breasts pressing against him through the thin fabric of her shirt. “You’re as pale as one of Reann’s ghosts.”

“Mother,” Reann scolded.

“I am not offended,” he said. “I am what I am and will not apologize for that.”

“Nor should you,” Susan said, pulling back.

“I brought wine.” He held out the bottle.

Susan took the bottle from him. Her left eyebrow arched. “How much did you pay for this?”

“More than I should have.”

“Then we must drink it slowly.” She glanced at Reann. “Could you—?”

“I know, I know,” she grumbled, “get some glasses.”

Mr. Howard smirked as he watched her sulk into the house. Children would always be children in the eyes of their parents, no matter what their age and they resented their parents for this, as he resented his mother for attempting to turn him into a priest. Three hours of praying each day while his friends roamed the city learning to be men. It was enough to drive a boy to murder. Strange that his own son should travel a road he resisted so violently.

“Take a load off,” Killgood, said.

He eased onto a chair. “Do you have a bottle opener?”