Beth smiled. ‘Just stopped in for a drink. Business.’
‘So we’re doing business in hotel bars now, are we?’
‘I have to go where the clients are, Jack,’ she said. ‘Just like you have to go where the bad guys are.’
‘Okay.’
‘Get it, big guy?’
‘Touché, already.’
Beth stirred her coffee, even though the cup was almost empty. She put down the spoon, took a few more moments.
‘You know, Missy’s going to tell me all about her,’ she finally said.
‘Who?’
‘The one you bought the new sweater for. The one you took to the movies today.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yeah,’ Beth said. ‘Girl code and all.’
‘Is that right?’ Paris hoped she was just kidding. He didn’t ever want to do battle for Melissa’s loyalty.
‘So why don’t you tell me about her?’
Paris gave Beth a basic description of Diana, down-playing Diana’s looks. He still knew what he was doing, it seemed.
‘Is it serious?’
‘I don’t know. How are you supposed to know?’
‘Well, you just left her, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you still thinking about her?’
Paris found that he was. He told the truth.
‘Then it’s serious,’ Beth said with what Paris read as a forced smile. She was a little jealous, after all.
‘Well, it looks like you’re going to get a chance to check her out yourself. She and Missy made plans to go to the Home and Flower Show. Without me, I think.’
‘I’ll be gentle with her, Jack. I promise. I won’t tell her how you use toothpicks and leave them lying around the house.’
‘I never did that.’
‘Or how you can’t light a barbecue to save your life.’
‘Who can’t?’
‘Or how you’ll wear a pair of sweatpants until they drag themselves to the washer.’
‘Hey. I’m just doing my part to save water.’
‘But I appreciate the mini-profile. Every little bit helps. The serious stuff, though – like how she really looks – I’ll hear that in about thirty seconds.’
‘From Missy?’
‘Yep,’ Beth said as she arose from the table and smoothed her skirt. ‘We’ll be gossiping like fishwives before we hit the lobby. I’ll get the lowdown on what she wore, how much jewelry and make-up she had on, if she colors her hair. Standard dossier stuff.’
Paris hung his head, clearly outgunned.
‘You can’t escape the scrutiny of two nosy women,’ Beth added. ‘Don’t even try.’
‘She doesn’t tell me all that much about Dr Bill, you know.’
‘I rest my case.’
Paris swung his legs out to the side, and when he stood up he found himself inches from Beth’s face.
‘Do you really have to go?’ he asked.
Beth nodded. ‘Got some work to do. I’ll talk to you next week.’
As she leaned forward Paris turned his cheek, as was their custom. Instead, this time, she turned his head and kissed him gently, soulfully, on the lips, the first time in more than two years.
‘See you,’ she said, and walked toward the pharmacy.
Jack Paris could only stand mute.
21
SHE WAS ASHAMED of herself. She knew it was wrong. It had haunted her all weekend and she was going to do something about it in very short order.
But, Samantha had to admit, there was something about the whole matter that was kind of exciting, too. Sexy, in a perverted kind of way.
Morbidly fascinating.
Yet when the policeman came into the store that day, Samantha looked at him and just knew what he wanted, what he was going to ask about. It all made sense somehow, although she really didn’t want to believe in the sense that it made. The rinses, the Irish walking-hat, the mustache. The sketch she had seen in the Plain Dealer didn’t show much of the man’s face, but it was enough. She would have known him from behind.
Because for more than a year, in her dreams, she had touched every part of the man’s face – had kissed his forehead, his lips, the small, almost-cleft in his chin. In her dreams she looked like a young Michelle Pfeiffer, soft blond hair cast seductively over one eye, pinning the object of her desires helplessly to the bed.
Her Mr Faroh. Or Farrow. Or Pharaoh. She didn’t know how he spelled it.
When the policeman asked Mr Hendershott about the mustache, though, Samantha knew that she would have to tell the truth. And soon. As much as she would hate to have anything happen to him, there were all those other women to think about.
But how could it be? How could her Mr Faroh be the man who killed all those women? No. His eyes were kind. Cultured. He was an actor, for heaven’s sake. An artiste.
She knew that sooner or later the police were going to catch this killer, and if they found out that he got his phony mustache for free at Allied Salon Products …
Something would most assuredly happen, Samantha thought. Something bad.
She picked up the phone, looked at it, as if expecting it to dial itself, then replaced it on its cradle. All for the fiftieth time. She stroked her tomcat, Giacomo, debating.
But it wasn’t really a debate at all. Because, who was she kidding? Did she really think that a man like her Mr Faroh would ever call her? Would ever date a woman like her? With her plain face and mousy hair and flat chest and knobby knees and crooked front tooth.
Fat chance, Sammy, she thought. The only reason he wanted your name was because you had to be so stupid as to give him that mustache. And then, for him, there was no turning back. He wanted to know where you lived. Had to know. Just in case.
He’s a clever one, that Mr Faroh.
She ran a tub, scorchingly hot, dropped her robe to the floor. She stared at herself for a few resolute moments in the bathroom mirror: droopy and lined and puffy in the harsh light thrown by the single bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Thirty-seven, Sammy. Thirty-eight in three days.
She settled into the steaming tub, coming alive, feeling rejuvenated and aroused, hoping that this would be the very last time she would ever fantasize about him.
She grabbed the worn, plastic shampoo bottle and closed her eyes.
‘Hi, this is Detective John Paris. Please leave your message after the tone. If this is a police emergency, hang up and dial 911.’
Beep.
‘Uh, hi. My name is Samantha Jaeger and I work at Allied Salon Products on West Forty-fourth Street, and you were in the other day and you were asking about mustaches and Mr Hendershott said that we hadn’t sold one in a really long time and while that is in fact true it is not exactly what you might call the truth. Call me.’
She left her number, hung up, grabbed a full breath, exhaling slowly. It had been relatively painless, she thought, this ‘notifying the proper authorities’.
‘See, Giacomo?’ she said to the cat. ‘If you just do things, it’s so much easier than stewin’ and stewin’ and stewin’ about them until your stomach gets all edgy and you can’t eat anything.’ She gently shook the rather portly cat. ‘Which has never been our problem, has it?’
She put the policeman’s card on the coffee table, walked into the kitchen and scanned the contents of her refrigerator. The same as yesterday, save for one less Diet Coke. She absently checked the cupboards, even though she knew there were no two things in the apartment that could be combined to make anything resembling a meal. Cocoa Puffs and evaporated milk. Hamburger Helper with absolutely nothing in the freezer to help. She ambled back to the living room, muted the goofy voice of Mr Howie Mandel, then dialed Domino’s Pizza, her third time in three days.
Which is one of the reasons why, when the buzzer rang about twenty-five minutes later, she didn’t ask who it was.
22
SERGEANT ROBERT DIETRICHT and Sergeant Thomas Raposo were late for their 7.45 a.m.
Monday briefing. The task-force started without them.
‘We’ve run the name Farrow through the computers, spelled just about every imaginable way. There’s sixteen Farrows in Cleveland. Ten Farohs. Three Faros,’ Paris said to the handful of detectives scattered around the common room, including Tim Murdock, who was now on shared duty with the task-force, and an attractive woman Paris hadn’t yet met but who looked a lot like a shrink. She had the posture, the confident bearing of education. ‘We have paper on six of them,’ he continued, writing the names on the chalkboard. ‘Nothing bigger than a B and E, though. The rest are mostly traffic. No violence.
‘Eleanor Burchfield told me she had not asked the man about his name, having assumed it was spelled F-a-r-r-o-w. It didn’t occur to her that it may have been Pharaoh, with a P-h. Regardless, there’s no “Pharaoh” in the databases. The FBI is currently running it through VICAP to see if there are any serial wackos out there with an Egyptian bent. On the other hand, he said his name as if it were just one word. I’m inclined toward “Pharaoh”.’
‘What about the make-up?’ asked Greg Ebersole, who looked to Paris about as alert on a Monday morning as he could remember seeing him. His unruly red hair was moussed and combed, his suit pressed. He looked like a cop. ‘Did we get any matching MOs on any earlier victims being made up post-mortem?’
‘Nothing yet. Or nothing that hasn’t been closed, I should say. As for fingerprints, we’ve got everybody accounted for at the four scenes. The few errants that were picked up belonged to police officers. Carl McCracken, a rookie from the Fourth, dropped one at the Red Valley Inn.’ Paris scanned their faces for more questions, found none. ‘Cyndy?’
Cyndy Taggart stood up, flipped open her notebook. ‘No connection yet between Reinhardt, Milius and Karen Schallert,’ she said. ‘They went to different high schools, different colleges, worked at different ends of town, they even banked with three different banks. Different health clubs, different gynecologists, different social circles. These three women did not know each other.’
‘What about boyfriends? Exes?’ Paris asked, finding it hard, after seeing Cyndy all dolled up the previous Wednesday night, not to look at her legs. Today she was wearing very tight jeans, making it even more difficult for him. ‘Any crossover?’
Cyndy shook her head. ‘Phoenix PD comes up negative on Milius’s ex-husband. No record. Burchfield had been seeing a guy named’ – she flipped a few pages – ‘Peter Heraghty. But he was in New Orleans. Got his signature on a VISA receipt the day of the murder. The other two were real loners, I’m afraid. No steadies.’
Paris nodded at Greg Ebersole, who stood up, cleared his throat.
‘All the women appear to have followed a similar routine, including Eleanor Burchfield. They all went solo to a club after work, had maybe one too many chardonnays and ended up leaving with our boy. All blood-alcohol levels were high, indicating that they probably had been drinking for at least a few hours.’
‘Is there any evidence that they hit more than one bar on the evening of the murder, that they may have met someone and gone bar-hopping?’ Elliott asked.
‘No one has ID’d them at any other bars in the area. None of them smoked, so we didn’t find matchbooks. No phone numbers on cocktail napkins.’
Greg Ebersole sat down.
Captain Elliott stepped forward and introduced the woman who had been standing at the back of the room. ‘This is Dr Gayle Wheaton, Associate Chief of Psychiatry at Johns Hopkins. We’re extremely fortunate to have her, but just for the week, I’m afraid.’ Elliott said. ‘Dr Wheaton?’
‘Good morning all,’ she said.
Dr Wheaton looked to be in her early forties – short red hair, fine-featured. She wore a navy blazer and pleated white skirt.
‘I’m not here to subject you to Serial Murder 101,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’ve all been well briefed on the basics of the deviant sexual mind. The reason I am here is to fill in a few gaps in the recent research.’
Despite her promise, Dr Wheaton proceeded to explain the very cardinal elements of the serial murderer’s MO. Shrinks always have to start at the beginning, Paris thought. That way they can bill a few more hours. He listened to her explain how there is always a pattern, each murder followed by a cooling-off period, which can last from just a few hours to months and longer. She discussed how, many times, the killer would take a memento from the victim or the scene. She spoke about how they almost always act alone.
Paris knew the rudiments. He took the opportunity to slip away, check his voice mail, and find Tommy.
Eleven messages!
Message one was from Stan Azzarello of the Midnight Beacon, perhaps the trashiest of the tabloids. If such measurements could be made. Paris often thought that making such comparisons was like trying to judge which piece of dog shit smelled the best.
Message two was from the woman who worked at Allied Salon Products. Something about the mustache. Paris jotted down her number and made a note to call Reuben to see if FBI Hair and Fiber had gotten back to him about the mustache found in Karen Schallert’s hair.
Messages three through nine were all from either national tabloid reporters or the regular group of sleazebags. The calls had come in all night. Out of habit, Paris copied these numbers down as well.
Number ten was from Melissa, who had called him at 7.05 a.m., before she left for school, to remind him about her upcoming play.
Message eleven was a hang-up.
Paris glanced at his watch and determined that it probably would not be too early to return Samantha Jaeger’s call, seeing as she was a nine-to-fiver. He dialed the number, noting that she lived in Lakewood. He got her machine, left a message.
Ditto for Tommy.
He then dialed Kasimir’s on Lorain, where Tommy had breakfast three or four mornings a week, but neither Kas Jaroz nor his wife, Bette, had seen him. Paris retrieved the Allied Salon Products card from his folder and was just about to dial when he noted that the shop was closed Mondays. He called anyway, but there was no answer, no machine.
Four for four, he thought.
With practiced ease he stood up, tossed the reporters’ phone numbers into the wastebasket, and rejoined the meeting.
‘… is the sort of man we’re looking for,’ Dr Wheaton said. ‘The make-up, the mutilation caused by the removing of the tattoos …’
‘So what does it all mean?’ asked Cyndy Taggart. ‘I mean, they’re dead, why the lipstick and blush and mascara? The reports say there’s no intercourse taking place after death. What’s the attraction?’
‘Well, the killer seems to be obsessed with the application and removal of adornments,’ said Dr Wheaton. ‘These are, of course, generally thought of as games young girls play. Dressing-up, putting make-up on dolls, that sort of thing. I’d say there’s a good possibility that he was raised in an all-female home.’
‘What about an only child, raised by his mother?’ Cyndy asked.
‘Certainly possible.’
The question had been bothering Paris since Rita the Barmaid had raised the possibility the previous week. He asked while the asking was free. ‘What are the chances that we’re looking for a woman? I mean, that this guy is partnered with a woman? As in, he’s luring them to the motels and she’s killing them and putting on the make-up. What are the chances we’re looking for a couple?’
Greg Ebersole and Randall Elliott glanced at each other, exchanging incredulous looks, but remained silent.
‘According to FBI stats, about nil,’ Dr Wheaton answered.
‘Less than one percent of criminals designated as serial murderers are female.’
‘I’ll bite,’ Paris said, instantly regretting his choice of verb. ‘Why?’
‘We’re not quite sure. The prevailing theories tend to lean toward the maternal instincts. Women tend to kill out of passion, not obsession. Men still commit most of the homicides in this country.’
Paris glanced over at Cyndy Taggart, who stuck her tongue out at
him as punishment for asking such a sexist question.
‘But don’t think women can’t be just as sadistic as men,’ added Dr Wheaton. Paris returned Cyndy’s sneer. ‘The Aileen Wuornos case in Florida is an all too graphic reminder of the growing incidence of female serial murder.’
Paris knew all about Aileen Carol Wuornos, the road-house prostitute who was thought to have committed a string of murders along Florida’s I-95, the basis of Monster, the film starring Charlize Theron.
When he was looking up the details about Wuornos he had also googled ‘Rose of Jericho.’
The Rose of Jericho was a Middle Eastern flower that had a tendency to roll up when dry, then once again expand to full bloom when moistened. The Syrians and Egyptians had another name for it, Paris discovered, an ancient name he hoped would not be a portentous sign.
They called it the resurrection flower.
The EMS Unit was parked directly in front of 11606 Clifton Boulevard. The arched doorway at the front entrance to the twenty-four-suite apartment building was propped open with a stone pot bearing a few sadly neglected twigs, hollow stalks begging water.
The inner door was held open too – this one with a triangular wooden wedge – and as Paris scanned the mailboxes, found Samantha Jaeger’s name and apartment number, and began to mount the stairs, he found himself tempted to look into whatever it was that had drawn the paramedics to 11606. Besides being a detective, he was a terrible snoop. Born to nose.
Instead he focused on his duties, grateful to be pursuing something that had even a nodding acquaintance with a lead in this case.
The hallway on the second floor was narrow and medicinally clean. The floor beneath the carpet runner had been painted a dark brown enamel and it looked as if it had been buffed once a week for years. The sconces and floral wallpaper gave the corridor a 1930s-hotel look. Warm and inviting. Paris wondered about the rent.
Maybe, he thought morbidly, the presence of the EMS boys meant there was going to be an opening.
Don’t Look Now Page 14
