"People get those mixed up around here, my friend."
After he left, I called Blossom from the car. "You want some company?"
"I want yours."
92
LUNCH WAS a salad, all red and green.
"You'd rather have meat, wouldn't you?"
"I guess."
"This is better for you."
"I'm sure"—wondering when it was coming.
"You take vitamins?"
"Ginseng."
"That's not a vitamin, it's an herb. You're going to smoke, you should take nine, ten thousand milligrams of Vitamin C a day. And fifty thousand IU of beta–carotene."
"IU?" I asked, pretending like I was listening.
"International Units."
"Okay."
"Okay what?"
"Okay, boss."
Her laugh was throaty. "You never had a boss in your life."
"I've had cottage leaders, counselors, directors, superintendents, wardens…you name it."
"No employers?"
"No."
"Didn't think so."
"You think you know me, girl? You talked to Sherwood, maybe got a look at my rap sheet. Watched me around the diner. Drove around in my car…"
"Held you in my hands."
"That too. Think you know me?"
"Yes."
"Why am I here? Right now."
"You want to see if I'm still having an estrogen–fit."
I locked her eyes, voice serious, just the edge of a chill. The same voice that's backed up punks all through the underground. "I'm here because I got work to do…we got work to do. The cops think they got a pattern to the killings, but there might be more. Random shootings. Not deaths. Shootings. Maybe this freak dipped it, got it wet before he plunged in. We could get it out of the newspapers, but it might take weeks of work, go back a couple of years. So what we need is a reporter. Every paper's got at least one real one. Some hungry guy, wants to know what's going on. That's why he's in the journalism racket, to know things. We find one, get his nose open. Make him a deal. Tell him why we're looking, get him to go through the clips. Attempted murders, shootings. Drive–bys would be the best. Or sniper–shooting into some woman s window. See? Give us a few more pieces.
"I…"
"I'm not finished, Blossom. This pattern thing, it could lead to nothing. I don't know where the flower is, but I know the root. Like a preacher knows the devil. But where I have to look, it'll take a scam. And a doctor, now she'd be just perfect for it." I lit a smoke, pushing my salad plate away. "Now you understand what I came here for?"
She got up, walked around behind my chair, put her hands on my shoulders, her lips against my ear. "I'll carry your gun in my purse, in case you get stopped again. Besides, you probably got no room in your pocket, all those rubbers you brought with you.
93
IT TOOK ALMOST an hour for her to come out of the bedroom. I looked up from the newspaper. Blinked.
Blossom in a teal–blue silk sheath cut an inch or two above the knee, thin black belt at the waist, black spike heels with ankle straps, tiny black–faced watch on her wrist. A pair of black gloves in her hand.
"Like it?" she said, twirling a full spin, looking at me over one shoulder. Showing me another side of her, promising more. Her lemon–blonde hair was swept off her face, done up in a thick French braid. A touch of soft blue eyeliner, lips glossy and full. Seamed stockings caught the afternoon sunlight.
"You're a doctor…I look dead to you?"
She let me hear a grown–up girl's giggle, smoothed the sheath over her hips. "I'm lucky I can still get into this one."
"How come…I mean, why'd you…?"
"You said something about getting a man's nose open, last I heard."
94
BL0SSOM CROSSED her lovely legs, arched her back. Reached for the car phone, punched in a number. I told her we'd start with the reporter who'd done the feature story on the family of one of the dead kids. She got him on the line.
"Mr. Slater, my name is Blossom Lynch. I wonder if I could talk to you about one of the stories you wrote…about those lovers' lane murders?"
…
"I've got a special interest. A personal interest."
…
"Well, I'm on my way to Gary right now. Could I just stop in, maybe take a few minutes of your time?"
…
"Thank you so much."
She sat back in her seat. "He'll be a good reporter."
"How could you tell from that?"
"He knew I was a beauty even over the phone. And don't be asking me how I could tell that."
95
WE CROSSED THE railroad tracks on Broadway, stopped in front of the Post–Tribune. Blossom gave her name to the guard at the desk. We took seats, Blossom frowning as I lit a smoke.
Slater came into the waiting room. Took one look at Blossom and thanked God for sending him to journalism school. A medium–built youngish man with an honest, open face, shirt coming out of his suit pants, needed a haircut.
"Miss Lynch?" he said, walking over.
"Doctor Lynch," I told him, getting up before she did.
The same reporter who'd been in the courtroom when Lloyd was bailed out. He must have recognized me, but he didn't miss a beat. "And you're…"
"Sloane. Mitchell Sloane. Private investigator."
"Come on with me," he said, moving his arm for Blossom to step in front of him. He was young, not stupid.
We took seats in the conference room. Slater took out a reporter's notepad. I lit another smoke.
"What Mr. Sloane told you is true, Mr. Slater. I'm a doctor. But that's not why I'm here. One of the girls who was killed, Rose, she was my sister. It seems the police don't have a viable suspect, just this young kid they arrested. So I retained Mr. Sloane to help me look into the situation. He had some ideas he wanted to check out, and I thought we'd come to you about one of them."
"Which one?"
My cue. "Maybe this sniper worked up to what he eventually did. Maybe he tried out the weapon on some other people first. Not killing, just shooting at them. Or maybe he tried a different gun. But, I figure, maybe there's been some other shootings in the past few months, maybe back a year or so. Unsolved shootings."
"This is Gary, Indiana, friend. You think every time somebody fires a shot on the street it makes the papers?"
"If somebody's hit they would. Hell, they even do that in Detroit."
"Okay. Why come to me?"
Blossom leaned forward, flashed a smile, promised more. "This isn't a job for a thug, Mr. Slater." Excluding me from the conversation. "It's a job for an investigative reporter. You help us look, you'll be the first one to know if it works out."
"What if I look and there's nothing?"
"I'm going to look other places. Maybe you will too…and we can compare notes, maybe come up with something that will help."
"How can I reach you?"
Blossom gave him her phone number. I smoked my cigarette. They talked some more. I tuned them out.
I followed behind them as Slater walked Blossom to the car.
96
WHAT'S THE SCAM ?" she asked on the drive back.
"Scam?"
"The one you said I'd be needed for."
"It's too early for it. Have to wait. See if Slater comes up with anything. And there's a man I have to see."
"What can I do now?"
"You got a car of your own?"
"Sure."
"We could use some detailed street maps. And I need you to learn how the Child Abuse Registry works out here. Where they keep the central records, what the access level of authority is. Especially if the records are on computer storage."
"Why?"
"Just do it, okay?"
"You mad at me?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"I listened to you when you knew what you were talking about. Like about the vitamins, right? I know about this."
"Didn'
t I do well with the reporter?"
"You did great."
"Then…okay. Where're we going?"
"I'm looking for somebody."
She sat in silence while I rolled down the Interstate past the motel Sherwood told me about. Cars in the lot. No Chevy Blazers.
I stopped the car outside Blossom's house.
"You're not coming in?"
"I got work to do."
"When will you be finished?"
"Maybe eleven."
"Toss a pebble against my window," she said. "You know where it is."
97
"A RE YOU GOING to live with us?" Virginia asked me at dinner that night. Flat out, the way a kid asks. Wanting to know, not playing with it.
"Child, where did you put your manners?"
"She don't mean nothing, Reba. You like folks to live with us, don't you, honey?"
"Not everybody, Daddy. Just my family. That's how I got my Lloyd, when he came to live with us."
Lloyd sat up straighter in his chair.
98
EE WENT RIDING that night. Looking. It was just after eight when I pulled into a gas station. Virgil filled the tank while I reached out for Vincenzo. The Prof put him on the phone.
"The kind of person you want is a piquerist," he told me.
"A what?"
"Piquerist." He spelled it for me. Explained how the word came from the French, meaning to penetrate. I didn't interrupt him—Vincenzo flies down the track when he's got a full head of steam, but he derails easily.
"That sounds right to me," I told him.
"It wasn't in the DSM–III, not even in the latest revised edition. It's a pathological condition: it means the realization of sexual satisfaction from penetrating a victim by sniper activity. Or stab wounds, or even bites. And I found that case you wanted. People v. Drake. The defendant went to the city dump late at night. He fired nineteen rounds from a semi–automatic rifle into a car parked there. Two people were killed. He said that he didn't know anybody was in the car—he was just taking target practice. When the police examined the bodies, they found the female victim had bite marks on her and a bruised rectum. The female was dead before the bite marks were inflicted. Do you want the citation?"
I knew better than to say no.
"The official designation is 129 A.D.2d 966, Appellate Division, Fourth Department, decided April 3, 1987."
"Perfect job, Vincenzo. Can I ask you some questions about the case?"
"I have a copy with me."
"Okay. Was the shooter wearing camo gear?"
"Camo gear? It says…he was dressed in battle fatigues."
"Yeah, right. The weapon, do you have any specifics?"
"It says .22 caliber semi–automatic rifle, plus a high–powered 5.69–millimeter rifle and two large hunting knives. That's all."
"Just one more, Vincenzo. It was a psychiatrist who said this guy was a…piquerist, right?"
"Yes."
"Did he testify for the defense or the prosecution?"
"For the prosecution. The defendant said the whole thing was an accident. He was just practicing."
"You're the world's best researcher, Vincenzo."
"Thank you. I have a lot of notes, should I…?"
"Hang on to them for me, okay? Let me speak to the Prof."
"I'll bet a dime my man was on time."
"Right on time. I'm in the picture now."
"They got freaks everywhere, bro'. You should know."
99
BACK IN THE CAR, dark all around. Moving slow. Watching. I told Virgil about the call.
"Sounds like our man."
"Yeah. Sounds like the way Bundy worked. I knew it, just didn't know what to call it."
"Man like that, he wouldn't stop?"
"Not stop for good. He could hold up for a while. Until the pressure starts to pop his valves."
"Think he'd have a record?"
"No. Maybe some juvenile thing we couldn't find out about. It's a young man's crime."
We did a long, slow figure eight around the area. Merrillville, Glen Park, Miller, Gary, Lake Station I didn't know the way in yet, working on the different ways out.
"Virgil, I got something from Sherwood. You ever hear of a guy named Matson?"
"No."
"One of those Nazi types. Got some little group. You know: white power, save the race, kill the Commies and the niggers."
"Yeah."
"If our boy ever tried to link up, that's the place he'd go. Where he could wear his gear, carry his weapons, be part of something. I figure, maybe I'll try and talk to this Matson. Tell him I'm selling guns. Maybe he saw this freak."
"Those boys're not wrapped too tight."
"I know. I don't have an address for him. Just a place he hangs out. On the Interstate, a strip joint."
The windshield reflected Virgil's face, Cherokee cast to his features. "There's a number you can call at the mill. Pay phone. Anyone answering, you just tell them to get me. I can be anywhere around here in maybe fifteen minutes."
100
IT WAS WELL past eleven when I tossed a handful of pebbles and dirt in a gentle arc against Blossom's bedroom window. A light blinked on. I went around to the back door, an airline bag in my hand. She was wearing the terry–cloth robe, her face puffy with sleep.
She grabbed the sleeve of my jacket, turned around, and went back to her room, tugging me behind her.
101
IT WAS AFTER three in the morning when I felt her hands on my shoulders.
"Why are you sitting out here by yourself, baby?"
"I wanted to smoke a cigarette. Figured you didn't want the smell in your bedroom."
"Come on back with me. Bring your damn cigarettes."
102
THE PHONE rang in her bedroom. She didn't stir. Voice of an answering machine picking up. Man's voice. A hard man. "Nobody's available to talk to you right now. Leave a message and one of us will get back to you."
The machine beeped. Hang–up tone.
"Working at the diner, you meet all kinds of folks. It's not hard to get a phone number. They call, hear that voice, they figure I'm not living alone. It wouldn't bother anyone with a real message for me."
"Who made the tape for you?"
"An old friend."
"You know a lot of tricks for a country girl."
She propped herself on one elbow, eyes luminous. Leaned across my chest, found the cigarettes. Stuck one in her mouth, snapped a match alive, took a drag. Handed it to me.
"My mother ran a bawdy house. That's what they called them then. I was raised with working girls. My mother was one herself, before she went into management. You know West Virginia?"
"A little bit. I worked the riverfront once. Both sides. Steubenville in Ohio, Weirton in West Virginia."
"That's the spot. Mama started with a little crib on Water Street, back in the sixties."
I remembered. Only place I'd ever been where you could buy moonshine and heroin on the same block. Made Detroit look like Disneyland.
The red tip of the cigarette pulled highlights from her hair, flowing loose around her shoulders.
"My mother got left with a baby. Pregnant prostitute, you heard all the jokes. That was my sister Violet. She made it by herself, did what she knew how to do."
"You were never…"
Blossom laughed. "I never went to church. Mama wasn't enough of a hypocrite for that. And the kids at school, they knew. I learned how to fight real young. But turn a trick? She would've taken the skin right off my backside. Same for the other girls…the girls in the house, I mean. Some were silly, some were mean. But most, they were real sweet and loving to me, like family. I used to have to take four baths a day, scrub off all that perfume and powder they'd put on me when I was a little girl."
Two girls. How many faces? I turned to her. "And you went to medical school…"
"Yes."
"Those houses were rough joints. How'd your mother keep things quiet?"
&nb
sp; "She always had a boyfriend. And we had a manager. House man. He wasn't for the girls, Mama did that. He'd work the door, handle things. She had the same one, J.B., long as I can remember. Boyfriends, they'd come and go, but J.B. was always there."
"Never got busted?"
"Oh, sure. Once in a while. It was never much of anything. Pay a fine, pay the sheriff, Mama said it was all the same. It was a sweet house. Blue light. No rough stuff. You could gamble downstairs, but it was no house game. Just the boys playing cards among themselves. No dice, no wheels. You give a man a card table, some good whiskey, let him smoke his cigars, have some pretty girls walk around in high heels and fishnet stockings, serve the drinks, light their smokes, they'll stay all night. Mama used to tell them, you set aside enough cash to spend an hour upstairs, and you go home a winner, no matter what."
"She knows how it works."
"She died five years ago. When I was almost twenty–four. Lung cancer."
"That's why you went to medical school?"
"Partly. Funny, I was always the one Mama worried about the most. Violet was wild, but she settled right down. And Rose, she was quiet. Everybody's pet. I spoiled her rotten my ownself."
"Why'd she worry about you?"
"Mama used to say, a girl who's got a taste for a trouble–man once, she keeps it forever."
"And you did?"
"Chandler Wells God. Used to be I could just write his name in my school notebook and get trembly right above the tops of my nylons thinking about him. He was a wild boy. Not bad, not evil like some. But wild. He ran 'shine just for the kick of it. Gambled away all the money he made. Folks said he'd be a stock–car champion, he could ever settle down long enough, get him a good ride at the track. He even tried it a couple of times. Told me it wasn't much of a thrill going round in circles."
"What happened to him?"
She wasn't listening. Her long nails absently scratching my chest. Back there, then.
"Mama ran him off a dozen times. She couldn't get mad at him, not real mad. He'd come around to the back. And the girls, they'd help me sneak out, be with him. One time, the troopers chased us. Just for speeding, but Chandler, he wanted to play. He had this old Mercury he put back together from a stock car and there wasn't a car in the county could catch him when he was flying. The troopers had the road blocked off at one end. They used to leave just enough space between the cars to let one through. Just enough. Like a challenge: that opening looked like a slit when you were going fast enough. They played it square: you got through, they wouldn't chase you anymore that night. But if you didn't, they'd call the meat wagon. Chandler was smoking down this old dirt road when we saw it. 'You want me to stop?' he asked me. 'Go on through, honey,' I told him. Holding on. 'I love you, Blossom.' It was the first time he said that to me. Like he did then. We shot through the roadblock like it was a mile wide. Weeks after that, folks would come to see Chandler's Mercury…there was paint streaks down both sides from where he passed so close. When he finally brought me home that night, Mama grabbed a strap, chased me all around the place. The girls had to sit on her, hold her down, she was so mad. Later, when she was calm, she sat me down. Told me what Chandler was. A trouble–man. She said some men are rogues and ramblers, and some women are just drawn to them. After a while, the good ones, they settle down. But a trouble–man, he never gets quiet."
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