Don’t Look Now

by Richard Montanari

  She called herself Abigail.

  After a very erotic slow dance, we returned to the bar. Saila was on the loose. I didn’t see her.

  ‘Can I get you something?’

  ‘White Russian,’ she said.

  I motioned, ordered. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her looking me up and down, further cruising my wares, as it were. She was very well accessorized herself, tasteful, with moderate-to-expensive jewelry, just a few show-pieces. A very pretty Piaget watch. Her make-up was flawless.

  She was also petite in just the proper, most appealing ways: small hands and feet, a tiny, turned-up nose, a narrow waist.

  Our drinks arrived. I clasped mine, an Absolut on the rocks, with my cocktail napkin – in case a quick departure was forthcoming – and raised the glass.

  I recited: ‘Hold fast thy secret, and to none unfold. Lost is a secret when that secret’s told.’

  We touched glasses, sipped.

  ‘What does that mean exactly?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a caveat. It’s from the Arabian Nights.’

  ‘That’s odd.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t look Arabian.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m very aware of my appearance.’

  ‘I’ll bet you are,’ the woman said, fashioning her mouth first into a smile, then around her straw. Her lips were scarlet. I imagined them doing all sorts of things.

  ‘So, what’s an intelligent, cultured woman such as yourself doing in a common roadhouse such as this?’ I asked. ‘And why on earth would you entertain a villainous lout like me?’

  ‘Oh,’ the woman said, searching for a morsel of wit. ‘You could say I’m slumming.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked. I put my hand upon her leg. She tensed the slightest bit but did not resist me. Instead, her eyelids fluttered once and I knew that she was mine. ‘And just what is it that you’re used to?’ I moved closer.

  ‘I’m used to the best.’

  ‘The best.’

  She looked at my lips. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what if I told you that you had never once had the best?’

  ‘I’d say …’ she began, her hands finding my waist, giving in to me. ‘I’d say show me.’

  She leaned forward, ran the tip of her tongue over my lips, then pulled away.

  God, I loved a challenge. ‘Come with me,’ I said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come with me now. Just for an hour.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re going to play with me, aren’t you?’

  ‘As long as I can.’

  ‘I think your time is running out, kitty-cat.’

  Without further talk the blond woman in the expensive suit and the harlot’s wig took me by the hand and led me toward the lobby, full of sass and self-possession.

  I knew we were being watched, of course.

  My only hope was that, for everyone’s sake, he was part of the game.

  30

  PARIS DID HIS best to block out the conversation around him, even though it was quiet, piano-bar talk, cool and important: Land Rovers, stocks and bonds, the films of Miranda July, smart drugs.

  He had other things on his mind.

  So many things didn’t fit. For instance, the time of Tommy’s call the night of the Schallert murder. Tommy had taken the call at 1.12 a.m. Saturday, and called Paris at the Caprice Lounge at 1.18. Tommy had indeed called from Berea.

  The coroner’s office was able to do a liver-temperature reading on the body and the reading put the time of Karen Schallert’s death at very close to twelve-thirty, which made it at least possible for Tommy to have driven to Red Valley.

  The woman Tommy was with that night – one Arlene Ward – said Tommy had gotten to her place around a quarter to one, maybe one o’clock.

  And then there was the fact that Tommy’s hair was dark brown, so why on earth would he dye it dark brown? Yet, the lab had found traces of the EZ Color Deep Chestnut in Tommy’s hair.

  And then there was the matter of Samantha Jaeger’s bedroom. A sick little ditty known only to Jack Paris and Mr Larry Goldblatt, the super at 11606 Clifton Boulevard.

  Paris conceded that he might never understand the significance.

  Because, of the 140 photocopies Samantha Jaeger had tacked to her bedroom walls – photocopies of the killer’s sketch that had run in the Plain Dealer, blown up to an eight-by-ten size – fifteen of them had been drawn upon. She had smeared lipstick on the man’s lips, rouge in the hollow beneath his cheek-bones. The lenses of his glasses were tinted yellow and orange and amber, some gradient. The rest of the black-and-white images were untouched, showing the same idiot repetition of the grayed-out tweed of the man’s Irish walking-hat, the same cleft in his chin. Paris imagined the woman furtively visiting a Kinko’s Copy Center at three in the morning with her Plain Dealer, running off all those copies of the composite sketch, taking them home, mounting them carefully on the walls, drawing on them and then … what?

  Something twisted, he was sure.

  The bottom line was that the department had lacquered the case shut the moment the story had moved to the Metro page.

  Bullshit.

  Paris had seen Diana three times in the previous weeks, but it had never matched the first night. Or maybe it was just the stress of the case that made him think so.

  Why was he so worried about it becoming something?

  He dropped a twenty on the bar, made his way to the men’s room, did his business. He stepped out of the bathroom and was just about to cross the lobby when he saw her. He knew who it was, even before she turned and showed him her profile.

  It was Andrea Heller.

  And she was once again decked out in her B-girl-blonde regalia.

  Abigail.

  Paris stepped back into the men’s room, his heart pounding. He waited a few moments, pushed the door, peeked out. Andrea Heller was standing in front of the hotel, arms crossed, shivering in the chilly night air. Finally, a white BMW pulled up and she got in.

  Paris followed.

  31

  MATT HELLER THOUGHT: What the hell am I doing?

  None of this had been planned to his satisfaction. Not really. Control was a very important part of his fantasy life and Andrea, it was clear, had just decided to wrest it away from him. Part of it was very exciting. Part of it scared the crap out of him.

  She had leapt up from her stool and walked out of the bar with this attractive man, without even giving him a high sign of any sort. What if he hadn’t been watching them at that precise second? What if he didn’t think it was such a good idea? What if the car hadn’t been able to start?

  What if Andrea was a lot more involved in this game than he had ever known?

  Regardless, there he was, following his wife and another man to God knows where, to watch them do God knows what. He had always wondered what Andrea would be wearing when this finally happened; what he would finally, after all these years, see some other man unsnap, unzip, unhook, undo.

  Matt Heller had also thought that what was about to happen to him would happen just once in his life, then they would go back to their marriage as if it had never happened. Each to their own private fantasies. And although he had planned it a thousand times over, now that it was unfolding in front of him like some steamy off-off-Broadway show, now as he drove four car-lengths behind his wife and another man, now that he was so furiously aroused, he wasn’t at all certain he could go through with it.

  Because, besides being the most outrageous thing he had ever concocted, wasn’t this also the most dangerous? Didn’t that psycho-cop who killed himself prove that you can never tell about people?

  Matt followed the white BMW from a safe distance, not knowing that yet a third car was a few lengths behind him, heading to the same destination.

  Matt thought: Why does it have to be a fucking BMW on top of it? Couldn’t he look like that and drive a Kia or something? Or a Focus?

  Matt decided to call it off
. The minute he found out where they were headed, he would find a way to call it off. He would say he is Andrea’s brother or something, in from Waukeegan, with the sad news that Uncle Conway had died and that his six Akita pups needed a home.

  Fantasies, unlike reality, Matt Heller thought as he rounded the exit ramp, are a lot more manageable.

  And probably, he was all but certain, a whole lot safer, too.

  32

  PARIS PARKED ON the berm of the road and walked back the quarter-mile to the single-story, rust-red building that formed the L-shaped Motel Riverview in Russelton, about thirty-five miles east of Cleveland. It was a mostly rural area, and while the motel had a small neon sign on Townshend Road, it was virtually hidden from the highway, set back a few hundred yards and bordered on three sides by a gravel parking-lot that quickly gave way to the forest.

  From his position behind the first layer of second growth, Paris found himself completely obscured, yet no more than forty feet from the building. The two windows to the right were dark, but the third window, the window that corresponded to the BMW parked on the other side, was illuminated, perhaps by a light left on in the bathroom. The glow gave the impression of a diaphanous curtain drawn on a tiny stage.

  Moments later a woman’s hand flipped on the light in the main room. The bright rectangle of color in the darkness looked like a film unreeling, or perhaps some big-screen television that someone placed in the middle of the forest.

  Because the shade was half drawn, Paris could only see part of the man as he stood against the far wall and removed his jacket, then his shirt. His abdomen was hard and rippled, his arms muscular. He wore black pleated trousers and a thin belt. Paris occasionally caught a glimpse of Andrea Heller’s profile, she being by far the shorter of the two, but he could not see the man’s face. He would have to get closer.

  Paris argued that part of him was there, hiding in the woods like a Peeping Tom, because he felt in his heart that the Pharaoh case was not closed, and that this somehow would give him insight. He argued back that there was something about the prospect of watching this woman have sex that was driving him mad.

  Hadn’t he thought about Andrea Heller a number of times since they met at the Impulse Lounge that night? Hadn’t he wondered what sort of game she was playing?

  Now, it appeared, he was going to find out.

  He watched the man remove her blouse and unzip her skirt, letting it slide to the floor. She wore a claret-colored camisole.

  They kissed for a while, caressed for a while. Then, in one powerful movement, the man lifted Andrea Heller and put her roughly on to the bed.

  As they made love, Paris could only discern the back of the man’s head, his matted hair and the sinewy tiers of his back and broad shoulders. His face never came into view. As Paris stood up and tried to achieve a better vantage point, he realized that his left leg had fallen asleep. He immediately fell backward into a tree trunk, which, mercifully, was substantial enough to hold him. He righted himself, turned back to the room, and—

  The explosion, the huge barrage of fireworks that Paris figured was located about an inch or so behind his eyes, came in bright orange bursts which, were it not for the pain at the base of his skull, would have been tolerable.

  Then came the pain.

  Then, the darkness.

  Whoever had hit him from behind had been either a true professional or a true amateur. Paris had not ‘seen the lightning’ in a few years. Whoever had belted him had either clipped him just right – so he’d be out for only an hour or two – or had tried to kill him and missed completely.

  But there was little doubt in Paris’s mind who had hit him. He figured it was the guy he had seen hanging around the edges of the Impulse Lounge that night, the one he’d pegged as Andrea Heller’s husband.

  Either way, all things considered – the fact that it was four-something in the morning, the fact that he was lying facedown in a gravel parking-lot in Russelton, Ohio, the fact that he probably had it coming for being such a pervert – he had felt worse.

  Paris sat up, focused on his watch, the ache sitting at the base of his neck like a full hod of bricks. His hands then instinctively tapped where his gun and shield should have been, and he was very pleased to find them in place. Then he tapped his jacket pocket and that gratifying sense of satisfaction left him just as quickly.

  The photographs he had found in Tommy’s belongings were gone.

  Saila does Quality.

  Shit.

  He should have stashed them away somewhere.

  The light in window number three was off now, as were all the other lights in the motel. A check of the parking-lot in front showed Paris that the white BMW was gone too.

  He found his legs, then his car, then his car keys.

  An hour later he was throwing up in his kitchen sink.

  Five hours and six aspirin later he felt nearly human.

  At 2.30 p.m. he got up and went to open his door for his newspaper. He found a yellow Post-it note stuck to the inside doorframe, and his paper lying on a nearby table. He brought the note over to the window, trying his best to focus. He didn’t immediately recognize the handwriting. It read:

  Stopped by, came in, decided not to wake you. (Why were these doors unlocked, detective??!!) Off to pick up Melissa for the Home & Flower Show. Hope Beth doesn’t hate me (nervous). Had to change on the fly so please mind my overnight bag. Hope you can meet us at the restaurant as planned …

  Diana

  Paris looked at the couch and saw the Louis Vuitton bag. It looked new. The desire to peek inside was overwhelming, but Paris bullied it back for the time being.

  He had no idea what Diana had come by, but he did recall hearing Manny let out a few barks sometime early that afternoon. He had shushed him, and the dog, not exactly Conan the Terrier anyway, had curled up on the bed.

  Paris poured a second cup of coffee and flipped open the paper. It was the first day since Tommy’s death that the story wasn’t mentioned, even in a short item.

  Hallelujah, Paris thought, as he gulped his coffee and headed for another scintillating adventure in urban bathing – a cold, brown shower at the Candace – a session during which he would, unknowingly, wash all traces of blood off his hands.

  * * *

  At five-thirty the buzzer sounded. It was Nick Raposo. He was carrying with him a bulging plastic garment bag.

  ‘Nick. What brings you here?’

  ‘Got a few things,’ Nick said, puffing from the four flights of stairs, handing Paris his hat and coat. ‘Thought you might like to take a look at them.’

  Nick caught his breath while Paris hung up the man’s coat, then poured him a cup of coffee.

  Paris explained to Nick that there were no leads yet, nothing to deflect Tommy’s guilt in the Pharaoh killings, but that he had a few ideas he was going to follow up on. For the time being, Nick Raposo seemed satisfied.

  ‘My brother’s a tailor, Jack,’ Nick said, crossing the room and grabbing the garment bag. ‘Fuckin’ genius at it, too. Always was. I figured you to be a forty-two long. Here. Try this on.’ He held up the suit coat.

  Paris slipped on the cashmere blazer, and it was a perfect fit. Right down to the sleeve length. He may have felt like a dirty dime, but he looked like a million bucks.

  ‘The pants,’ Nick continued, ‘the pants we work on later.’

  ‘Nick, I don’t think I—’

  ‘Hey, don’t worry about this stuff being Tommy’s. It’s just things, you know. No soul, no heart. Why waste them? I sure as hell can’t use them.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Then don’t say anything.’ Nick waved a hand at the door. ‘I got a box of stuff in the car, too. Books and CDs and other things I want you to have. Jazz and some other crap. R’n’ B. Whatever the fuck that is. On the other hand, if it ain’t Frank or Tony Bennett, I’m kind of lost, you know?’

  ‘Thanks, Nick.’

  ‘Not a problem. Now get you
r ass downstairs and get the box out of my car. I’m too old to be hauling shit that heavy up four flights of stairs because you can’t live in a building with an elevator.’

  In the larger of the two boxes Paris found some of the books he had seen when he went through Tommy’s belongings in Nick’s basement. He flipped open one book, A Handbook of the Ancients. It was inscribed: ‘Happy Birthday from Marta, Danny, Chauncey and the rest of the crime-drones at the Fourth.’ Paris knew them all. Marta was Marta Perez, the bombshell dispatcher. Danny was Danny Lawrence. Chauncey was Ed Chance, a lifer with a job-related limp and a pair of Great Danes the size of a loveseat.

  Next was a stack of CDs and a pile of T-shirts from every major airport in America. Tommy had a thing for flight attendants. Underneath was a small leatherette photo album, one Paris had not seen before.

  The first photo in the book was Tommy sitting on a concrete bench at Disney World, holding a plump little girl about two years old on his lap. The girl, who had curly blond hair and wore a neon-orange sun bonnet, didn’t look anything like Tommy, so Paris figured she wasn’t his child or even his niece. Paris marvelled. It wasn’t as if there weren’t enough single women in Cleveland. Tommy found a way to date women with two-year-old kids.

  The second photograph in the book was of Tommy in a cream-colored suit, his arm around the waist of yet another gorgeous woman. It was taken at what looked to be the lobby bar at the Ritz-Carlton Cleveland. The woman had long dark hair, shapely legs. The moment Paris was able to tear himself away from the woman’s legs he noticed something else about her.

  It was Diana Bennett.

  Midway through Diana’s overnight bag, Paris got pissed off. Pissed at the world, pissed at his stupid fucking life, pissed that he had allowed himself to tumble even an inch for this woman, pissed that he was, at that moment, rifling her bag for the childish reason of finding not only more evidence that she had slept with Tommy Raposo – which was none of his goddamn business anyway – but evidence that she was tied to a series of homicides.