by J. A. Kerley
Harry and I walked into the house, saw Roy in the dining room talking to a tech from the ME’s office. Wayne Hembree was studying the bloodstained living-room carpet. Careful where we put our feet, Harry and I walked over to Roy Trent and the tech. Zipinski kept a neat house; the place shone.
“Hey, Carson,” Trent said. “Thanks for the heads-up on the Nancy Chastain case. We were looking into her past, but only about a year. Getting close on anything?” Trent’s face was hopeful. I jammed my hands in my pockets, rocked on my heels.
“Ten minutes ago I thought I knew something, Roy. Now I’m back to I don’t know.”
Harry looked at the carpet in the living room, a rusty red Rorschach-image, four feet across. He shook his head. “What went down here, Roy?”
“Mr Borgurt F. Zipinski went down, Harry. Fast, too.”
The ME’s tech stepped up. “Looks like a knife from behind. Deep and through the jugular. One cut. Clean, no sawing. At least not from a fast visual exam. It looked professional grade. Grab and slit and jump away from the spray.”
“But they’re still alive when they go down,” I said. “You get to see their eyes in that final moment.”
The tech gave me an odd look. “Uh, right, I guess.”
Trent walked up. “No sign of forced entry. Looks like a let-in. Someone he knew, I’d say.”
Hembree stood. I said, “No art, Bree? Nothing like that around?”
He shook his head. “Or candles or flowers or cheap-ass jewelry. You think this has something to do with the Wicky-Gilbeaux-Chastain cases?”
“I think I should have taken up alligator wrestling.”
Hembree nodded at the stained carpet. “At least I can tell you this guy wasn’t buried and exhumed.”
“Yo, pogo-boys.”
Harry and I saw Danbury at the door, kept back by a uniformed cop. I went over and brought her inside. Harry followed Hembree to the kitchen. Danbury looked around, seemed mystified.
“It’s like a show home, Carson. At least compared to the few times I was here.”
“Not usually this tidy?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Clothes on the floor, dishes on the clothes, dried food on the dishes, bugs on the…”
“He cleaned for company,” Trent said. “Special company. I’m a bachelor. I know the ritual.”
Harry called me into the kitchen. He’d been studying various papers on Borg’s counter. There was a grin under Harry’s mustache. “What’s the first thing you do if you come into a big hit of money, Carson. Like, found money?”
“Pay down the credit cards. Tuck some in the retirement fund. Put a few bucks into home maintenance…”
Harry stared at me.
“Buy something cool that I really don’t need,” I admitted.
“Like this?” he said, holding up a sales brochure for Corvettes, a business card stapled to the front page.
“…convertible, Millennium yellow, magnetic selective ride control, the performance package, five-spoke aluminum wheels, satellite radio, automatic transmission…”
Delbert Jennings, Automotive Representative at Performance Motors, recited from the printout in his hand. Harry, Danbury and I were crowded into Delbert’s small office, all manner of automotive awards and recognitions on the wall. I resisted telling Delbert he was in the company of the Mayor’s Officers of the Year, not wishing to upstage him.
“Automatic? On a Corvette?” I said. “Blasphemy.”
“One hand on the wheel, the other honking the horn at women,” Danbury said. “Borg in his glory.”
“How much would this particular vehicle cost?” Harry said. “Forty grand or so?”
“Closer to fifty-five,” Delbert announced. “Small price to pay for a true piece of Americana.”
“I own a twelve-year-old Volvo wagon,” Harry said. “Blue Book’s about four grand. Small price to pay for a true piece of Scandinavia.”
“Of course,” Delbert said, unsure of whether to smile or not.
“He gave you a something down?” I asked.
Delbert consulted his sheet. “Two weeks back he gave us ten thousand down. The car’s on the lot and prepped.”
“And when is Mr Zipinski scheduled to pick up his new toy?”
“Today. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him…”
“Bringing by a check?” Harry asked.
“Cash. Just like the down payment.” A look of fear crossed Delbert’s eyes. “This deal’s not going down, is it?”
We retreated to my place after leaving the dealership. The Blovines’ Hummer was gone and they’d neglected to leave the usual TV on, cranked up to jet-engine decibels. We sat around a table on the deck and watched the sun shimmer over the water. There was a gentle breeze. I added Zipinski’s actions to the timeline.
“Borg laid down the money on his pussywagon two days after Marie Gilbeaux was discovered.”
“Do you have to keep calling it that?” Danbury asked.
“It’s a valid automotive term,” I protested.
“Any ideas on how Borg made the money?” Harry asked Danbury.
“Borg was freelance. He was good at surreptitious stuff, like for private agencies, a natural at getting shots on the sly.”
“Footage of couples in flagrante delicto?” I said.
“If that’s cop for sneaking around on the side, yes.”
“Working for private investigators, you mean?”
“PI’s, law firms, or anyone with fifty bucks an hour plus expenses.”
Harry said, “Fifty grand in ten days? I don’t think he put in over a thousand hours; that’s lawyer-type billing.”
“I think events parallel the pussywag—, uh, Corvette purchase,” I ventured as a weaving strand of pelicans swooped past the deck. “Two days after Marie ended up in the Cozy Cabins, Borg got hired for something - ten grand down. Today was settle-up day. Except it was Borg who got settled.”
Harry looked at Danbury. “Was Borg off station work the past couple weeks? Working some other project?”
“Except for Paris, he’s been pretty much with me. We did the standard stuff, plus, of course, this project.”
Harry said, “You weren’t in Paris long. According to the ME, Borg spent most of it being dead. Didn’t leave him much time.”
“He never needed much time; Borg was great at the sly stuff. We did an exposé on a politician having an affair a couple years back - the county commissioner? Though the guy was super-discreet, it took Borg all of two afternoons to verify it, bringing in tape of the guy squiring a bimbo into a Grand Bay motel.”
Something quivered in the back of my mind. Verify? Verification was the cornerstone of the scam. Verification of Hexcamp. Not just the art, Hexcamp. Collectors want to believe…The quiver turned to a shadow, one comprised of forms and words, a jumble of sound and shape. Standing outside Coyle’s house. Danbury on the phone, arguing with the station. Me shaking hands with Borgurt Zipinski.
Zipinski patting sweat from his head.
A hat atop a camera.
I stood, began pacing the deck, trying to match my speed to my twisting memories.
“Verification,” I whispered.
“Carson?” Harry asked. “You OK?”
I nodded my head, kept moving; back and forth, rail to rail, trying to shake thoughts loose from the shadows in my head. Ambrose Poll’s stolen items had perfect provenance, Willow had said, verified by the MPD via evidence tags. What had Giles Walcott said? The buyers needed to believe.
A red light blinked on a camera.
Then it didn’t.
The floor seemed to buckle beneath my feet. My breath disappeared, leaving only the pounding of my heart. I slapped the deck railing, swore.
“What?” Harry said.
“I know who it is,” I said. “I know who verified the art.” I ran to my dining room, grabbed the stack of papers on the table, threw recent issues across the floor, scrabbled through the rest.
A perplexed Harry and Danbury fo
llowed me inside. “Carson?” she said. “Who is it? Who authenticated Hexcamp’s work?”
I found the paper I needed and held it aloft in shaking hands. It was the issue with the photo from the Mayor’s Recognition Breakfast. I tapped the picture.
“Me,” I said.
“What?” Harry roared.
Chapter 44
I gave my theory of events. It took two minutes.
“It fits,” Harry said, rubbing his face. “The major pieces, at least.”
Danbury said, “You’re saying Marie Gilbeaux was dug up because her killer saw your picture in the paper?”
“Think it through: the killer’s maybe spent years living off Hexcamp’s supposed art, scraps of something, all the while pimping the notion that a big stash of beautiful madness is floating around. Collectors treat it like the Grail legend, but real. The killer starts thinking of the big score, killing off everyone who might get in the way - Wicky, Gilbeaux, Chastain. The Paris contingent. There’s only one problem…”
“Getting someone to verify the art.”
I read from the caption of the Mayor’s Breakfast photo:
Nautilus and Ryder are members of the MPD’s elite Psychopathological and Sociopathological Investigative Team, or PSIT, and are considered authorities in the area of serial killers and other psychologically deranged criminals. Having received additional training at FBI headquarters, their expertise in identification and analysis of these warped individuals puts them at the forefront of…
Danbury took the article, read it. “It says you’re authorities, the alpha and omega of regional serial-killer knowledge. Add to that the look on your face, Carson. You look like a Fundamentalist preacher on speed. It’s so righteous it’s scary.”
I let her photo analysis slide. “The killer sees the photo, suddenly knows what the verification mechanism will be: us, the PSIT. But how to get us on the case, weave us into the plot?”
Harry said, “Dig up Marie Gilbeaux, bring her to the Cozy Cabins. Along the way, pick up some candles, a few weirdo rings. Veer into a cemetery, pluck some posies.”
“Instant bizarre,” I said. “We’re handed the case.”
Danbury said, “What about the art at the convent?”
I ran the timeline in my head. “It fits perfectly. Remember the postmark? It was mailed the same day Marie’s body was discovered.”
“An afterthought?”
I felt the rush of the invisible lines becoming visible, of lamps being lit through the darkness. “The killer leaves the motel, thinks the scheme through. Art, he thinks, leave pieces of Hexcamp’s supposed art. He drops a swatch in the mail. It’s the perfect tie-in. Rope in the PSIT with the bizarre death, tighten the knot with art.”
Harry nodded. “Heidi Wicky’s dead too. By a week, maybe. But that doesn’t stop the perp from slipping back and taping art above her body. Nice and spooky.”
“How’d your picture get on the art from the convent?”
I shook my head, waved it away. “It doesn’t fit in the box yet.”
“How about the art that came to Carla?”
“One more way to keep Hexcamp in our faces. Look here: Hexcamp art. Look over there: Hexcamp art. Up, down, sides and back - Hexcamp art. There was one constant suggestion: Marsden Hexcamp’s art is real, and profoundly powerful.”
Harry walked to the window and watched the surf. “It’s like when astronomers can’t see a planet, but figure it’s there because it pulls on the planets around it.”
“There was no planet, Harry. We were fools for gravity.”
“Horseshit,” Danbury said. “Don’t sell yourselves short. Something’s always been there: the incredible swatches of art. Without them, there was nothing to believe in. It was the art at Coyle’s that got you, Carson. Right? You said something to Borg.”
I thought back over the seemingly innocent exchange: his contrition, apology, handshake. His touching at the camera.
“I didn’t really say it existed. But I didn’t deny it. He was wiping his face, set his hat over the top of the camera.”
“A red light that flashes when it’s recording. He got you by covering it. I’ve seen him do it before.”
Harry grunted. “The tape immediately went to Coyle, of course, copies to prospective buyers, the newspaper article alongside. Probably with an affidavit by lawyer-boy: ‘Acclaimed serial-killer authority validates art; auction at eleven.’”
I said, “Let’s see if that piece of the chain links up.”
Harry and I drove to the offices of Hamerle, Melbine and Raus in separate vehicles, not sure which way we’d break after what was hopefully today’s final piece of business. Danbury pulled in behind. She’d run by her station to pull a picture of Zipinski from his ID card file. I didn’t want to show Lydia the final shot of Borgurt Zipinski, the one taken by the Medical Examiner’s technician.
Warren Hamerle was out of the office, probably his default condition. Still, I was surprised Lydia wanted to meet at the firm, and not in the secrecy of the coffee shop. She further surprised me by wearing a mauve print dress, matching shoes, a yellow scarf around her neck. For her it seemed as colorful as an electrified rainbow.
“Sure, I remember him,” Lydia said, nodding at the picture. “Mr Pizinski.”
“Zipinski,” I corrected. “He’s worked for the firm, then?”
“Yes.” I heard disfavor in her voice.
“For Mr Coyle specifically?”
“The first time was a couple of years ago. Mr Coyle was handling a negotiation for farmland sought by a developer, acreage jointly owned by a brother and sister, estranged. Mr Coyle was working to get them to agree on a selling price. He suspected the developer and the sister of conspiring against the brother to lower the price, the sister getting her cut on the side. Mr Zipinski brought us the necessary pictures. The developer and sister were having an affair. The tapes were very…graphic. Perhaps unnecessarily.”
Harry said, “Coyle knew who would get the job done.”
“That’s why Zipinski provoked my little scene,” I said. “After knifing the tire to keep us there.”
Danbury’s eyes flared and her hands balled into fists. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I got used; I’m an idiot.”
Harry said, “Relax, Danbury. Using people’s what Zipinski did best, I think.”
Lydia handed the photo back like she couldn’t wait to get rid of it. “I never cared much for Mr Zipinski. He was somehow…unsavory.”
“How are you holding up, Lydia?” I asked. I’d noted Rubin had transformed to a frostcoated Mr Coyle in Lydia’s mouth.
“I gave my notice to Mr Hamerle three days ago. And left a letter on Mr Coyle’s desk. It says, ‘Go to Hell.’”
I smiled, though I figured the odds were long on Coyle’s ever seeing it. “Good for you, Lydia.”
She smiled tentatively; I saw resolve in her eyes. “I think so. Time to move on.”
The guard in the building’s lobby was a star-struck old guy who wanted Danbury’s autograph. She went to do a little PR schmoozing and Harry and I walked into the sunlight. He said, “Miz Lydia confirming Coyle knew Borg pretty much ices the cake. To paraphrase Walt Kelly, ‘We have met the authenticators and it is us.’”
“What’s a Walt Kelly?” I asked. Harry sighed and looked at his watch. “Looks like we wait until morning, hear what Walcott gets. What are you going to do, Carson?”
“I’m going home for the night, Harry. I’m ragged.” I headed toward my car.
“Carson?”
I turned. Harry walked to me. “Wanna go grab a cold one?”
“I, uh, that is…”
Danbury exploded through the door into the parking lot, afraid she was missing something. “Hold up, boys,” she bayed.
Harry looked at her. Then at me. “Got other plans, then?”
“Hope so,” I said.
Harry smiled like he’d just won a bet with himself and walked to the car whistling “What a Wonderful World”.
<
br /> It was almost six p.m. when Danielle Desiree Danbury and I turned into the sand-and-shell drive to the three houses on my short street. The Blovines pulled out as we entered. Mama was wearing something cut low, boobs bouncing mightily as the garish Hummer growled over the choppy drive. They made a point of not seeing me.
Loath to let absence contribute to the peace, the Blovines had left a TV on. On the other side, my quiet newcomers continued apace. The red Toyota hadn’t moved. After pouring a drink, we went to the deck to let the breeze blow the day away. We spoke of Borgurt Zipinski for a few moments, Danbury saddened he’d led what seemed such a shrunken, self-centered life.
“There was nothing to him but what he could buy and who he could screw, physically and metaphorically, Carson. You know people like that?”
“From prison block to pulpit, courthouse to boardroom.”
“I pray, Carson. You believe that? I’m not sure to who, or how it all works, but I do. Sometimes I give thanks I wasn’t someone like that, like Borg. And probably like these…people you’re following. The death collectors. I can’t imagine the emptiness of their lives. Maybe it’s a terrible thing to say, but do you think some people are born without souls?”
I started to answer, caught myself. I was tired of thinking and wanted to lose myself in something simple and honest and physical. I stood and held out my hand.
“Let’s go inside,” I said. “I want to learn more about dancing.”
Chapter 45
Morning arrived clear and bright, the fresh sun pressing amber into the curtains. I fixed coffee and we drank it on the deck. It wasn’t yet six thirty. I took a shower. After I dressed, I found Danbury staring at the brown box on my kitchen table.
“Carson, is this…?”
“Yes,” I said. “The final mask of Trey Forrier.”
She thought a moment. “Can I see it?”
I removed the mask, held it to her. Sunlight glinted from the glass teeth, glistened from the black surface. The red-scribed eyes glared with menace. She accepted it hesitantly and held it at a distance, sensing its malignant potency.
