by James Hayman
“No. Murder.”
Tyler said this calmly, without any sign of distress or emotion, as if there was nothing unusual about fathers murdering mothers. Or even that there was anything wrong with it.
“How did it happen?”
Tyler shrugged. “I don’t know. He was angry about something that she said. So he punched her.” Tyler made a fist and punched one hand into the other. “Hard like this. Wham!”
“He did that a lot?”
“Yeah. He used to beat her up regularly,” he said. “Usually when he was drunk. But sometimes I think just for the hell of it. You know, just because it made him feel like a tough guy who wouldn’t take any shit from anyone. Anyway, this one time when he hit her she fell awkwardly. Hit her head against the side of the hearth. Right there.” Tyler pointed. “Started bleeding like shit.”
“Was he drunk at the time?”
“No more than usual.”
Zoe realized that what Tyler was telling her wasn’t so different from the stories she’d heard about her own great-grandparents. “Why didn’t she just leave him before that happened?”
“Who knows? When I used to ask her that, she told me she loved him, and maybe she did. In spite of having the shit knocked out of her on a fairly regular basis. More to the point, I think she was afraid of losing Tucker and me. You know the old song? ‘You Always Hurt the One You Love.’ Well, that was sure true of the old man. I guess everybody screws you over in the end.”
“Did he beat up you and your brother as well? Or was raping the two of you his only entertainment?”
“No. The rape was intermittent. Beating us up was all the time. He was always angry at one of us. At my mother. At me. At Tucker. Specially at Tucker. He couldn’t deal with the fact that Tucker is . . . whatever Tucker is . . . a little slow at ordinary things. But brilliant at others. He’s what they call a savant. Mention any date in history and he can tell you what day of the week it was. Ask him to multiply any two numbers or tell you what the square root is of anything and he knows it instantly.”
“Like Rainman?”
“Like that. Only this isn’t a movie. This is real. My father used to beat all of us up. Once when I was fourteen he got so pissed off at me he picked me up and tossed me, headfirst, into the shallow end of the swimming pool.”
Zoe wondered if the tendency toward violence might be hereditary. “Couldn’t you swim?”
“I was a great swimmer. Problem was the water in the shallow end was only about eighteen inches deep. My head hit the concrete. Concussion put me in the hospital for three weeks. I actually think he enjoyed it. Guy was a fucking psychopath.”
The phrase The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree flashed through Zoe’s mind. “Didn’t anybody ask how it happened?”
Tyler laughed at that. “Oh yeah. The story my loving parents told the doctors was that I dove in myself trying to make a leaping catch of a Frisbee. That was bullshit but since he was this rich lawyer . . . with lots of big deal friends . . . they believed him. Same way they believed him when he swore my mother’s death was an accident, which he tried to blame on me. He told everybody that she tripped over some sports equipment I supposedly left on the floor, fell and hit her head.”
“How do you know her death wasn’t an accident?”
“’Cause I was there. I saw what happened.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. If I’d said a word he would have killed me as well.”
Zoe found herself again feeling sympathy for this man who had kidnapped her, kicked and punched her and then walked in on her in the shower. She wondered if he induced a feeling of pity in all his victims before he killed them. The idea of the Stockholm syndrome went through her mind again. Prisoners who side with their captors. Victims loving their tormentors. Could she ever love this man? It didn’t seem possible. Whether she felt sympathy for him or not, she told herself she couldn’t give in to feelings like that. She had to be ready to seize the first realistic opportunity to take Tyler Bradshaw’s life and perhaps his brother’s as well if she was going to have any chance of survival.
“You said your father died as well. The same year as your mother. What happened to him?”
He turned and looked at Zoe with a self-satisfied smile. “What do you think?”
“You killed him?”
“Nope. He committed suicide when I was nineteen.”
“Really? And how did you pull that off?”
Tyler’s smile broadened. He was, no doubt, pleased at the praise he thought was implied by the question. “Nothing fancy. I waited till he was out cold from knocking back most of a bottle of bourbon. Which he did most nights. In fact he was sitting in the same chair you’re sitting in now. Anyway, I put on a pair of surgical gloves and one of those plastic raincoats like they sell at Disney World. Then I stuck his own revolver in his mouth. Wrapped his hand around the grip. Pushed his index finger through the trigger guard and helped him pull the trigger. Then I wrapped the gloves and the raincoat in a plastic garbage bag. Drove them down to New York. Tossed them in a Dumpster on the way. I went to our apartment in the city. Took a shower just in case to get rid of any gun residue that might still be on me. And waited for the cops to notify me of the bastard’s demise.”
“Where was Tucker?”
“He was here. Cops questioned him for a couple of hours. But he didn’t know anything about it. He can’t tell a lie and I wouldn’t have put him through that.”
“And that was that?”
“And that was that. My uncle, another big-shot lawyer, took care of the legal stuff. Tucker and I inherited this house plus the Park Avenue apartment, plus about ten million dollars in stocks and bonds. A million or so in cash. And another five million from a term life policy he had. Which was a total surprise to me. I didn’t think he cared enough for us to make us his beneficiaries.” Tyler smiled in obvious satisfaction. At his own cleverness? Zoe couldn’t be sure.
Zoe took a good-sized slug from her glass. “Have you ever killed anyone else?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Like who?”
“Like your friend Sarah Jacobs. Though I don’t think you really knew her, did you?”
“No. You told me you didn’t know who Sarah Jacobs was either.”
“I was lying. I killed Ronda Wingfield as well.”
“And Marzena Wolski?”
“That’s an interesting story. I gave Marzena to Tucker. He’d never had a beautiful woman before, or, well . . . to be truthful about it . . . any woman. Sadly he couldn’t manage it. He remains a virgin to this day. And I suppose he will till the day he dies.”
“Where did you do it?” she asked.
“Where did I do what?”
“Where did you kill them? Sarah, Ronda, Marzena.”
“It all happened in the room you’re sleeping in. Sarah died in the shower right after we made rough love.”
“So you killed Jacobs after you raped her? That’s what you mean by rough love, isn’t it?”
“I already told you I don’t care for that word.”
“What word?”
“Rape. I’d rather you didn’t use it again. It’s crude.”
“The newspaper said you strangled her.”
“That’s right. We made love one more time but I could tell she wasn’t happy. I could tell she was faking it. So I put her out of her misery.”
Zoe studied his face as he made these admissions. He seemed totally calm. Emotionless. As if he were telling her the plot of the movie he watched last night. Or discussing what they would have for dinner. Or chatting about the weather. She almost wished he’d act more like a ghoul or a madman. The ordinariness of the way he spoke about rape and murder was far creepier.
“I take it you like the wine,” Tyler said.
Okay. So he wanted to change the subject. As for the wine, the truth of the matter was that she barely noticed what it tasted like anymore. She was just hoping the
alcohol could help keep her calm for a little while longer. Otherwise she was sure she’d leap up from her chair and run screaming for the door, run screaming from this house of horrors as fast as she could. But since there was no way she could get out without Tyler Bradshaw’s thumb to press against the lock, she’d probably end up like the three he’d killed before her.
Now she truly knew what Tyler meant when he called this place the Hotel California. You can check out any time you like. But you can never ever leave. She wasn’t sure if checking out meant giving up and dying? Or maybe fighting back and being murdered? She knew now she’d never ever be able to leave unless she could find a way of separating Tyler Bradshaw from his left thumb.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“What?”
“I asked you twice if you liked the wine and you didn’t answer. I hope you do, because I think it’s excellent.”
“Yes,” she said, coming back to the moment and managing to sound interested in what he was asking about. “It’s really very special. Quite delicious.” She raised her glass, offered him a smile and drank what was left in her glass. She looked over to where Tucker had put the second bottle on a silver tray set on a walnut cabinet against the far wall. Noticed for the first time the small steel corkscrew he’d left on the tray next to it. The kind she used to use back when she was working as a waitress. The kind with the little folding knife on one end and the corkscrew that folds out from the middle and sticks straight out.
“Shall I open the other bottle?” she asked. “Let it breathe?”
Tyler didn’t respond. It seemed like he was somewhere else. Maybe lost in a happy reverie of murders already committed. Reliving the act of pushing the gun into his father’s mouth and blowing his head off. Or maybe he was remembering murdering Sarah Jacobs in the shower. Or giving Marzena Wolski, the beautiful TV star, to poor, helpless Tucker.
Zoe got up and wandered across to the cabinet. She looked down. And saw a way out. There wasn’t one but two corkscrews on the tray. She glanced back at Tyler, who still seemed to be staring straight ahead, seemingly lost in his memories of murder and mayhem. Did he know there were two? Or had he finally made a mistake? She decided to take a chance. She used one of the corkscrews to open the second bottle of wine, lifted it to her nose and made a show of sniffing the wine. As she did she turned so her left side was facing him while she slipped the second corkscrew into her right side jeans pocket. Then she unwound the cork from corkscrew number one and put it back down on the silver tray.
She poured two glasses of wine and walked them over to him. Her heart was beating so fast she could barely hold them steady. She now had a weapon. One that could do some serious damage, though she wasn’t sure if it’d be enough to actually kill him. Death by Corkscrew. Definitely not as catchy a title as Murder on the Orient Express. But who knew? It was worth a try. She pictured herself lying naked in bed with him, perhaps after making long, languorous love. Perhaps distracting him by softly and sensually exploring his mouth with her tongue. And then? Then slamming the open corkscrew into his ear or maybe his eye or maybe against his temple and turning and pushing the spiral of steel hard and driving it home. Could she push it as far as his brain? Killing Tyler’s twisted brain by twisting in a piece of steel? Even if it didn’t kill him, it seemed to have a reasonable chance of working. So long as he didn’t kill her first.
Chapter 33
McCabe had been warned that the Laughing Toad would be jammed even at midnight, and the warnings were accurate. He and Maggie pushed their way through the doors and approached the hostess desk.
“Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe,” he said to the young woman manning the station, practically shouting to be heard. He flashed his gold badge without giving her much chance to see the words Portland, Maine. “And this is Detective Margaret Savage. Could you tell me who the hostess was last night from about eleven o’clock on?”
“Is there some problem, Officer?”
“A woman who ate here last night has been reported missing. We just need to talk to whoever was most likely to get a look at the people who were coming in around that time.”
“Eleven last night? I guess that would have been me.” A plastic name tag identified her as Brianna. “Also possibly James, the blond guy over there, tending bar. He worked last night as well.”
“How about the other two working the bar?” Maggie asked.
“They weren’t scheduled last night.”
“What’s your last name, Brianna?” asked McCabe.
“Jespersen. Brianna Jespersen.”
“Let’s start with you. Is there anywhere a little quieter where we can talk?”
“Nowhere really quiet but there’s a small office at the back behind the kitchen. That’s probably best. Let me see if I can find someone to take over the front. I’ll be right back.”
Maggie and McCabe scanned the crowd. Mostly young. Mostly attractive. And almost everyone trying their damnedest to appear cool or hip or whatever word twenty-somethings were using these days. McCabe’s vocabulary hadn’t kept up with the times.
Brianna came back after a couple of minutes with another young woman in tow. “Okay, Kelly here can take over for a little while. We won’t be long, will we?”
“Shouldn’t be.”
“Okay, follow me.”
The three of them inched their way through the crowd past the back of the bar. Then past the kitchen and the restrooms. At the far end was a door that said No Admittance. Brianna pushed it open and led them into a small office space no bigger than a walk-in closet. Just a desk, a chair and a computer.
Brianna flipped on the light “Okay, what’s going on?”
McCabe showed her a photo of Zoe on his iPhone. “Do you remember seeing this woman in here last night?”
Brianna’s response was instantaneous. “Yeah. She was here.”
“You’re sure?” asked Maggie. “There must be two or three hundred people here now.”
“Yeah, and it’s midnight on a Monday. There were a lot more than that when she came in Sunday after eleven. I don’t know her name but I see her in here fairly often. She was with a different guy last night than the other times I’ve seen her. Anyway, she joined this new guy at a table so he must have made a reservation. Without a reservation there’s no way you get a table.”
“So you should be able to find the name of the guy she was with?” asked Maggie.
“Yeah. Yeah, if he made the reservation under his own name we should. All the reservations go into our computer. We should have a phone number for him too. We always confirm a rez the afternoon it’s for.”
Brianna moved behind the desk, opened up the computer, and started tapping some keys. “I remember the table they were sitting at so I can cross-check. Okay. Here it is. The rez was made for eleven o’clock under the name Nichols. Luke Nichols. Number’s 212-555-9374. E-mail is [email protected]. Can you tell me what’s going on? Did this guy do something wrong?”
McCabe showed her the sketches Randall Carter and Richard Mooney had helped Astarita’s computer artist produce. “Does this look like Luke Nichols?”
“No. Not at all,” she said almost instantly. “Totally different face.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“So you never saw this guy before?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“What are you saying?” asked Maggie.
Brianna squinted at it for a minute. “A guy who looks a lot like this sketch came in a little after the woman did. Big dude. Very good-looking. Came in, I don’t know, maybe 11:20.”
McCabe showed her a still shot from the street video. “This look like him?”
“That’s him. Wearing the same clothes he had on last night.”
“Did he have a reservation?”
“No. He just came in and went over to the bar.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“How long was he here?” as
ked McCabe.
“Maybe half an hour. Actually not even that. In fact, he left shortly after the woman and this Luke Nichols guy left. I noticed ’cause he stood by the door for a couple of minutes before he left like he was waiting for something.”
“Was he alone?”
“Seemed to be. Came in alone. Left alone. Don’t know if he talked to anyone while he was here except maybe for the bartender. What’s going on? Is he a criminal or something?”
McCabe ignored Brianna’s question. “The bartender’s name is James?”
“Yeah. He’s the blond guy working the far end of the bar.”
Not wanting to interview James in the middle of the crowd surrounding the bar, McCabe asked Brianna if she could send James back to the office.
“Sure. No problem.”
Brianna left and a couple of minutes later, one of the most beautiful men either Maggie or McCabe had ever seen, at least outside of men’s fashion magazines, appeared at the office door. Beautiful or not he appeared nervous. “You the police officers?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Maggie. “You’re James?”
“That’s right. James Nielson. What do you need?”
“I’m Detective Margaret Savage. My partner and I just want to ask you about a customer you might have served at the bar last night. Around eleven-fifteen or so. A big guy about thirty. Might have been wearing an army-style field jacket.”
“I think I know who you’re talking about.”
“Here’s a sketch of him,” Maggie said, holding it up for him.
James angled his head to one side and then to the other as he looked at the sketch. “Yeah. That’s him. He’s actually better-looking than that. But whoever made the sketch got the shape of the face about right. And the nose. A really good artist would have captured more.”
“More like what?”
“I don’t know. Just that there was a nerviness about him. Like he was on fire the whole time he was here. Sketch doesn’t capture that.”
Interesting, thought Maggie. This guy James was a whole lot more observant than most people would have been.
“He ordered a double bourbon. Bulleit’s. Paid cash for it. Hung around for about twenty minutes or so, then took off without finishing it. His first name’s Tyler. I don’t know his last.”
