“I know, time to go,” Loren said. “I’ll watch you undress, later.”
She looked straight into his hungry dark eyes, patted her breasts with the flats of her fingers, fluffing up her nipples, and got dressed: black panty hose, a light thermal vest for warmth, a soft black skirt, a black silk blouse threaded with scarlet, tight over the vest. Back to the mirror, she painted on the lipstick, dark as raw liver, penciled her eyebrows, touched up her lashes; smacked her lips like women do, adjusting everything. Arranged the fall of the hair: like a black waterfall around her shoulders.
“Wonderful.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s what you get, when you sleep with an aesthete.”
Fairy walked back to the dressing closet and took out the short black leather jacket, pulled it on: the jacket gave her shoulders, and a stance. Two-inch black heels gave her height. Ready now.
“The knife?” Loren asked.
“Here.” She touched the breast pocket on the jacket; could feel it in there, new from Target, hard black plastic and soft gray steel, sharpened to a razor’s edge.
“Then—let’s go.” Loren smiled, teeth flashing, his face a white oval above his dark clothing, and Fairy reached out, took his hand, and they went.
Loren was the one who’d found Frances’s killers; together they’d scoured her laptop, her photographs—thousands of them, taken with a cell phone and a point-and-shoot Nikon, some of them stored electronically, but hundreds of them printed out, stacked in baskets, stuck to the front of her refrigerator, piled in drawers: a record of her life, from which the killers emerged.
There were three: “I can actually feel her hand on their shoulders,” he told her. “These are the people who did it.”
The three were scattered through the stacks of photos, but they were all together in one of them. The photo had been taken at a party of some kind, the three people peering at the camera, laughing.
“You’re sure?” Fairy asked.
“Never more. Blood on their hands, missus,” he said.
“I want them,” she said
“Revenge,” he said. He smacked his lips. “It’s so sweet; revenge tastes like orange juice and champagne.”
Fairy laughed at the metaphor and said, “Everything with you goes back to the senses, doesn’t it? Sight, sound, touch, taste, smell . . .”
“That’s all there is, missus. . . .”
They bought a car to hunt from—bought it at a roadside person-to -person sales spot, along Highway 36. Gave the seller an envelope full of cash, drove away in the car, an aging Honda Prelude. Never registered the change, never bought insurance; kept it out of sight.
They began to scout, to make schedules, to watch. Early on, it became apparent that the bartender was at the center of the plot—the fulcrum of Frances’s Goth world. He took in people, places, events, and plans, and passed them on. He knew what was happening, knew the history.
Fairy talked to him three times: once on the sidewalk, when he passed her, looking her over, and she passed by and then turned and called, “Excuse me, are you Mr. Ford?”
He walked back to her and grinned, shoulders up, hands tucked in his jeans pockets. A charmer. “Yeah. Have I seen you around?”
“I was over at the A1 a few weeks ago with Frances Austin,” Fairy said. “Did you hear about her?”
“I did. There’s been a lot of talk.”
“I can’t imagine what happened,” Fairy said, shaking her head. “Some people say drugs, some people say she must have had a secret lover.”
“She used to smoke a little, I know that,” Ford said. “But . . . I’m not sure she even had her own dealer. She didn’t smoke that much. I can’t believe it was drugs. Must’ve been something else.”
“The police think . . . I don’t know. Because she was one of us”— Fairy patted her black blouse—“that maybe somebody sent her to the other side, to see . . . what would happen.”
“Well, that’s scary,” Ford said. “What’s your name?”
She made up the name on the spot: “Mary. Janson. Mary Janson.” They shook hands. “Some of the people have tried to get in touch with her. On the other side.”
Ford’s eyebrows went up, and he smiled. “No luck, huh?”
“You don’t believe?”
“Oh, you know. I used to, I guess. Used to talk about it, anyway. With me, it’s more of a hang-out thing,” he said. He looked away. “I used to listen to the people talk about . . . you know. Life, death, crossing over. It’s interesting, but, I don’t know. Too depressing, if you do it for a long time.”
Fairy shook her head again, the black hair swirling around her shoulders: “It bothers me so much. If I could find out why she’s gone, what happened to her, I’d be fine. I could sleep.”
Ford leaned closer to her: “If you want my opinion, it was a money deal.”
“A money deal?”
“You knew her pretty well?” Ford asked.
“I did,” Fairy said.
“Then you gotta know she was rich.”
“I knew she was well-off.”
“Rich,” Ford insisted. “She told me that when her father was killed, she inherited, like, two million. She already had money from trusts her parents set up when she was small. She said they put in, like, ten thousand each, every year; during all those big stock market boom times in the nineties, she had a million of her own, before she inherited. So I know she had that much.”
“A lot more than I knew,” Fairy said.
“We joked about starting a club,” Ford said. His eyes drifted away, seeing another reality. “She’d back it, I’d run it. We’d bring in some dark music; change the scene around here. It would have been a moneymaker. ”
“Sounds wonderful,” Fairy said.
A rueful smile: “Yeah: she gets killed, and my life flashes in front of my eyes.” Ford looked at his watch: “Shoot. I gotta go, I’m late for work. Are you going to be around? Mary Janson?”
“I’ll be around,” Fairy said.
He leaned closer again. “You smell wonderful.”
She twiddled her fingers at him, and went on her way. “I’ll see you at the A1.”
Loren had been leaning against an old elm, listening. He caught Fairy down the sidewalk and said, “You smell wonderful.”
“I do.”
“You heard what he said.”
“Money,” she said. They seemed, now, to pick things out of each other’s minds.
“She must’ve talked it around,” Loren said. “You know how she liked to talk—and so, what happened is, she got some of these people all cranked up about starting a club, a new scene, but you know how conservative she really was; so it comes to the moment when she has to produce the cash, and she backs away.”
Fairy frowned: “How do you know so much about her?”
“Why, from you,” Loren said. “All you do is talk about her. All day, all the time.”
Back home, in bed, they made love in his cold, frantic way. Loren’s fingernails were an inch long, left scratches on her rib cage and thighs. And afterward, she said, “Ford knows.”
“Yes, he does. We should see him again; and some of the others. Patricia . . .”
“I don’t think she’d be involved,” Fairy said, tentatively.
“She’s involved,” Loren said, sitting up, the sheets falling to his waist, showing off his rib cage. His body was slender as a rake. “I can feel it. She was jealous of Frances. Her parents broke up, they don’t care whether she lives or dies. She’s over there by herself, nothing to do, no place to go. Frances had two parents who loved her, and the money. So the fat girl gets involved in this club thing, she’s going to be cool, she’s going to be a club owner, or operator, hang out with the bands . . . and Frances finally says she can’t have it. Can’t have any of it. Jealousy and hate.”
“Maybe.”
“For sure,” Loren said. “As far as I’m concerned, she’s on the list.”
“We have mor
e scouting,” Fairy said. “We have Dick Ford, we have Roy Carter, and Patty . . .”
“So we take a week, and think. Then we move again. If we don’t, the energy will fritter away. Just fritter away.”
She talked to Ford again, for ten minutes, at the A1, passing through. And finally, a third time, just at closing. Went to the bar, drank a beer, and he touched her hand, and touched it again, and the knife was like the Sword of Freya in her belt. When she finished the beer, as Ford was calling to the patrons to “Drink up and go home,” she drifted out the back door and looked back, caught his eyes with hers.
The alley was paved with red bricks, covered with the grime of a century of wear; she wanted to lean on something while she waited, but everything was dirty, so instead, she wandered in little circles, rocked back and forth, hoping that nobody else would come through the door.
A thought: I could leave right now. She could leave, and nothing would happen. She could sell the car—or not, who’d care?—and be done with it.
She toyed with the thought, then let it drift away. Dropped her hand to the knife. She’d spent some time with it, sharpening the edge until it was like a razor. She yawned: nervous.
Then Ford came through the door. He might have worked on his smile, inside, in the restroom mirror, because it was perfect—an effort to generate a bit of wry charm, in an uncertain situation with a good-looking woman. “So, what’s up?”
He was wearing a leather jacket, unzipped, which was good, and beneath it, a canvas shirt. She got close and let him feel her smallness, her cuddliness, while her right hand slid along the handle of the knife. “I can’t stay away from the Frances Austin thing,” she said. “I thought you . . . could tell me about it.”
“Frances Austin?” He frowned: not what he expected. “You’re sort of stuck on that, huh?”
There was one light in the alley, and they were almost beneath it. She caught a corner of his jacket sleeve, and tugged him closer to the open end of the alley, toward the street, but deeper into the dark. Turned him, set him up against the wall, pressed into him, said, “You were her friend. You must have some ideas about what happened.”
“No, I really don’t. . . . Not so much.”
She whispered, “Don’t give me that bullshit,” and she jammed the knife into his gut, just about at the navel, and then, as she’d imagined it, pulled it up toward his heart, the blade cutting more easily than she’d expected, and she put all her muscle into it, up on her tiptoes, using both hands on the knife handle. Ford swung his arms at her, but they were soft and straight, like zombie arms, uncoordinated, shock with pain, and she moved around them and pulled on the knife, pulled it up to his breastbone, and then out.
He slumped back against the dirty wall, staring at her, made gargling sounds, his hands stretching down toward the earth, and then he slumped over sideways and fell on his side, and spewed blood.
She squatted, listened to him die, then wiped the knife on his shirt and spit on him: “That’s for Frances,” she said.
She walked away, down the empty alley, carrying the knife. Got in the car, drove six blocks in silence, until Loren said, “He’s gone. I felt him go.”
“Yes.”
“Pull over.”
“Why?” But she pulled over.
“Because I’m gonna fuck you,” Loren said.
And he did, and when the orgasm washed over her, it smelled purely of fresh blood.
2
The day was slipping from gray into dark, the sun going down to the southwest over the Mississippi, and the rain kept coming—a cold, driving torrent that pounded the windows.
Lucas Davenport sat at a desk, in a dim room, staring at the lap-top screen and listening to Tom Waits, the sound tumbling out of a nineties boom box. Waits was working through “Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis,” and the bluesy piano fit with Lucas’s mood.
Across the street, a woman tiptoed into her bedroom, stopped to look into a baby bed. Smiled silently; then unbuttoned her blouse, slipped it off her narrow shoulders, hung it on a chair, then reached back between her shoulder blades to pop her brassiere.
A pair of Canon image-stabilized binoculars sat on the desk next to Lucas’s laptop. Lucas picked them up and watched as she dug through a chest of drawers. Must be cool in the apartment; her nipples were nicely erect. She was a brown-haired girl, of the brown-eyed tribe, with a long supple back that showed every vertebrae down to the notch of her butt. She’d kept herself in shape.
She came up with a T-shirt and then a heavy blue sweatshirt and pulled them over her head. Her pregnancy was progressing well, Lucas observed. She must be about four months along now, and was faithful about her biweekly visits to the obstetrician.
Bummer. If she was putting on a sweatshirt, no bra, she wasn’t going out. Heather was intensely fashion-conscious, a woman who wore high heels to Starbucks. Neither was she tarting herself up, so Siggy was not on his way over.
Sigitas Toms, Siggy to his pals and the cops, had been the Twin Cities’s largest-volume cocaine dealer, pushing the stuff through his contacts in the real estate, stockbroking, and used-car businesses. He’d been netting two million a year, tax free, at the end, with money stashed all over the United States and Europe.
When he was busted by the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension and St. Paul police, he’d told the arresting officers that he wouldn’t be going to prison. They all had a good laugh at that, Siggy included. He was the affable sort, right up to the time he pulled your dick off with a pair of wire cutters.
Two hours after he bailed out of jail, he vanished.
He’d been under a loose two-man surveillance at the time, one BCA guy and one St. Paul detective. From the jail, he’d gone home to a warm front-porch greeting from Heather. An hour later, hair still wet from what the cops assumed was a postcoital shower, he’d emerged from the house, carrying a slip of paper—a shopping list. Pampers, baby powder. He climbed into his Lexus and drove to the Woodbury Target store.
The watchers weren’t too worried when they lost him in the bed and bath department, pushing his cherry red cart between the high stacks of towels and bath mats and sheets, because there’s only one way out of a Target, the front, and that was covered, right?
Besides, you’d naturally lose a guy for a minute or two in a Target . . . but when they couldn’t locate him in a minute or two, they got anxious, and began running up and down, frightening the shoppers— or guests, as Target called them in the letter of complaint that they sent to the director of the BCA and the St. Paul chief of police.
Turns out, Target does have a back door, but not for customers. Siggy hadn’t had permission to use it, but callously had anyway; a cold-blooded criminal, for sure.
He’d had a car waiting and nobody had ever seen him again.
Well. Somebody had seen him, just not the cops.
His wife, heather, née Anderson, pled ignorance of everything. She thought Siggy was a humble car salesman, she said from the steps of their highly leveraged two-point-eight-million-dollar teal-and -coffee-painted McMansion. Doesn’t everybody have a house like this? The house had been part of Siggy’s three-million-dollar bond. When he skipped, the court found out, there was an unre-marked second mortgage, and with the slump in housing prices, the two mortgages were underwater. Or, as they say in California, upside down. If the court foreclosed, it’d mostly be foreclosing on air.
So there was Heather, twisting her hands in regret. There was the Ramsey County attorney, mumbling into his torts. And somewhere, was Siggy—a tear for poor Siggy, growing a beard in Mexico or Paraguay or Belize, drinking salty margaritas and cerveza blanca and watching the tourists walk hand in hand down the beach in flip-flops, pining for the old homestead in Woodbury, with its driveway ring of hosta plants, basketball net to the side, its legal writs.
Heather was pushed out of the house eight months after Siggy disappeared. A buyer was found, a radiologist, but the radiologist backed out at the last minute, pleading tha
t he’d received a phone call from a man who told him that if his family moved in, his children would be taken from their grade schools, and their eyes would be put out with a red-hot poker.
So the house sat there, empty, while Heather moved to a second-floor apartment on Snelling Avenue in St. Paul. Her mother lived in the apartment next door, rolling around on a powered chair with a tank of oxygen. Heather’s mom was dying of congestive heart failure and wouldn’t make it through the year. She might not even make it through the month.
When the old lady croaked, Lucas suspected, Heather and the child would be off to a warmer climate, like Zihuatanejo, or Monaco, where nobody would care about Siggy and his cocaine business in the Twin Cities.
The bca had taken an apartment above a drugstore across the street from Heather’s and, for three months, kept up a regular watch. Then priorities changed, and the watch became sporadic. Lucas and Del took it over, as a hobby. The drugstore apartment was quiet, and Lucas could work there, and the couch was soft, and Del sometimes came by for a nap.
Lucas’s group had broken the Toms case, and had made the arrests; had argued, through the prosecutor, that no bail should be allowed, that Toms was a flight risk.
They’d lost the argument, and then Toms had bitch-slapped the BCA and the St. Paul cops at the Target store.
THEN THERE WAS ANTSY.
Siggy’s brother, Antanas—Antsy Toms—had been at loose ends since his brother vanished. The cops believed that Siggy had been the brains and the driving force behind the organization. Antsy was . . . his brother. What could anyone say?
Antsy had a tattoo of the Statue of Liberty on one arm, and “US SEAL” on the other, with a dagger with blood dripping off it, though he’d never been in the military. He probably did have a dagger, though, and it probably did have blood dripping off it, from time to time.
When God was passing out the brains, Siggy had been at the head of the line. Antsy, in the meantime, had been off getting F-U-C-K Y-O-U -! tattooed on the knuckles of his hands, upside down and backward from his point of view, but forward and right side up when he was sitting across a table from a cop.
Lucas Davenport Novels 16-20 Page 70
