There had been nothing remotely kinky about the photo of Tommy and Diana. Nothing perverse at all. It was just a party shot of sorts; a posed picture, snapped through a boozy haze. All potentially explainable. Tommy was a cop, Diana was a prosecutor. Cops and lawyers hung out all the time.
You’re losing it, Jackie-boy.
He reached deeper into Diana’s bag, pulled out a short black slip and bra. Next, from the large pocket at the side, he retrieved a zippered, clear-plastic make-up bag. It was the same size and type as the make-up bag found in the trunk of Tommy Raposo’s car.
‘No,’ he said aloud. ‘God no.’
Paris dumped the contents onto the dining-room table and his eyes were immediately drawn to a powder compact. He picked it up, turned it over. Engraved in silver atop the slim ebony case was the understated logo of a bird morphing into the number five. Beneath it, a silver, engraved word:
Chaligne.
* * *
‘I have to say, I’m a little jealous, Jack,’ Beth said over the phone. ‘I didn’t think she’d be so, I don’t know – what’s the word I’m looking for here – beautiful? I guess that would be the proper one. If you like perfect looks, that is.’
‘Beth.’
‘Actually, now that I think about it, I’m jealous.’
‘Are they back yet?’ Paris asked, trying his best to mask any hint of fear in his voice.
‘What is she, a size five for God’s sake?’
‘Are they back yet, Beth?’
‘Not yet.’ Her tone shifted, the playfulness gone. She had made him. She knew him well. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ Paris said. ‘We were all supposed to hook up for Chinese food later and I don’t remember if it was the Golden Dragon or Silver Pagoda. Some precious metal as I recall.’
‘Jack.’
‘I’m telling you, nothing’s wrong. Listen, I gotta run, so I’ll either meet up with them, if I can figure the restaurant out—’
‘Kowloon Garden.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You sure everything’s all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, then.’
She didn’t sound convinced.
Paris rounded the corner and nearly knocked over Cyndy Taggart. She was still in uniform.
‘As promised,’ she said, regaining her balance. She held forth a pair of gloves and sunglasses, task-force leftovers that Paris, in keeping with most of his adult life, figured he had donated to the Land of the Lost Father’s Day Gifts. ‘Dig these Maui Jims, though,’ she added. ‘Almost kept them, except they’re a little too big for me.’
‘Knock-offs,’ Paris said. ‘Got them on Prospect somewhere. You of all people should know that I can’t afford Maui Jims.’ He turned on his heels. ‘Come on up for a second.’
‘What’s going on? You don’t look too good.’
Paris opened his door and they stepped into his apartment. ‘I’m okay.’
‘No sale, pal.’
She gave him that fellow officer/mom look that told him he should have his head examined rather than try and lie to another cop. He caved.
‘You know Diana Bennett?’
‘Sure,’ Cyndy said, sitting on the arm of the couch. ‘I mean, I’ve met her at the grand jury when I’ve testified. She’s questioned me. Why?’
Paris told her the barest details of his past three weeks with Diana and how, without thinking about it too much, he had let her take Melissa to the Home and Flower Show. He told her about the Chaligne compact in Diana’s overnight bag, as well as the photograph of her and Tommy.
‘Well, number one, the Chaligne doesn’t mean anything. Lots of women wear it.’
‘Okay, but that just means—’
‘Do you have the pictures you found at Tommy’s father’s house?’ Cyndy asked.
‘No,’ Paris said, hoping Cyndy would buy it. ‘They’re downtown.’
‘Exactly how kinky are they?’
‘Nothing really hard-core. But I have the feeling these weren’t the first pictures of that type she’s ever had taken.’
‘That’s a long way from serial murder, Jack.’
‘What I’m saying is—’
‘What you’re saying is that you somehow think this “Saila” might be Diana Bennett.’
Boy, did it sound stupid when she said it out loud. ‘I don’t know what I’m trying to say.’
‘I think you’re losing a little perspective here, detective. I mean, how do I put this delicately? You’ve been with Diana. In the biblical sense. Don’t you—’
‘Recognize her body in the photographs?’
‘Yeah.’
‘No. It was dark and I was drunk. There isn’t quite enough in the pictures to rule her completely in or completely out.’
Cyndy shook her head. ‘You men are unbelievable. We do this long, complicated dance for you, we finally give it up and you get so drunk you miss it.’
Paris shrugged. She was right. ‘What can I say?’
Cyndy looked at him for a long moment. ‘So where are you heading?’
‘I guess I was going to stop at the Home and Flower Show and peek in at them. Just take a look from the upper deck at Public Hall and prove to myself that I’m a paranoid asshole. If I didn’t see them, I was going to go to Kowloon Garden. Then I was going to head out to the Quality Inn.’
‘I’ll go with you.’
‘No, Cyndy,’ Paris replied. They stepped into the hallway. Paris locked his door. ‘I can’t ask you to give up your Saturday evening.’
‘It’s no problem. Personally, I think you’re blowing this way out of proportion, but I understand your concern.’
‘You sure?’
‘Don’t worry about it. Besides, we don’t have any tickets to the Home and Flower Show and the way you look you won’t be able to bull your way in with a badge.’
She was right. ‘Thanks.’
‘Just want to stop at my place and get out of my blues. Follow me. We’ll take one car into town.’
Paris put a hand on Cyndy’s arm. ‘Is this little excursion going to remain between you and me?’
‘You mean like me deserting my post at the Impulse that night?’
‘Exactly.’ They descended the steps.
‘You’re my kind of man, Jack Paris.’
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Almost two years,’ Cyndy called from the other room. ‘Two years this July.’
‘Nice,’ Paris said, running his hand over the cherry credenza in the dining area, holding a well-groomed Persian cat in the other hand. Like everything else in Cyndy’s tastefully appointed apartment at the Terrace View Towers on Cedar Hill, the cat looked European. It smelled of fresh lemons. ‘I never knew you were such a decorator.’
‘Let’s just say my ex is doing pretty well.’
Cyndy swung out of the bedroom buttoning her short denim jacket, carrying an oversized shoulder bag. Once again, Paris was disarmed by her out-of-uniform looks.
Cyndy checked the action on a small, nickel-plated .25 semi-automatic pistol, snapped in a mag and put it in her purse just as Paris’s cell phone rang. He answered.
‘This is Paris. SIU there yet? Call me when they get there.’ He clicked off. ‘Fuck.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Got a warm one at King-Kennedy. And I’m up, damnit. I need coffee bad.’
Cyndy sat on the arm of the couch. ‘Look, none of this Diana business is going to amount to anything anyway. You’re just being paranoid.’
Paris considered his actions of late. ‘You’re right.’
‘But if you like, I’ll go meet up with them. I’ve met Diana, she knows me. I’ll pick Melissa up and take her wherever you want. I’ll say you decided to take Melissa to a movie, and it starts at whatever time et cetera, et cetera.’
‘I guess that sounds okay.’
‘Then you and I will go to the Quality Inn,’ Cyndy said.
Paris knew he was overreacting,
but he decided to take Cyndy up on her offer. ‘Okay. Check the show, check Kowloon Garden. If you catch up with them, just bring Missy to my place and I’ll stop there as soon as I can, all right?’
‘You got it.’
‘Thanks, Cyndy,’ Paris said. ‘Ring the super at my place and show him your shield. Name’s Jimmy DeBellis. He’ll let you in.’
‘No problem,’ she replied, opening the door. ‘And relax. Everything’s just like it’s supposed to be. Make yourself coffee, wait for your call. Just close the door when you leave. It’s already locked.’
‘I owe you, Cyndy. Big-time.’
‘Believe it,’ she said with a smile, and left her apartment.
On one wall of Cyndy Taggart’s dining room was a huge Georgia O’Keeffe reproduction, expensively framed. The floor was highly polished and the wall coverings were very subdued, very tasteful. Lots of beige and brown and brass and antique-type things. Paris flipped through her CDs. Oldies, jazz-fusion, show tunes.
He sipped his coffee, found the remote and clicked on the TV. He surfed the channels for a while, landing on the Cavs-Knicks game on ESPN. But he found himself glancing at his watch far too often to concentrate on what the Knicks were doing to his beloved Cavs.
Ten minutes later, his call-back came.
The King-Kennedy homicide was a fifteen-year-old dealer named Ramon Jackson. He had been shot point-blank in the back of the head, twice, Scarface-style, and he still had more than $2,000 in his pockets. This was clearly no robbery. There wasn’t much left of Ramon’s face, but one of his cousins identified him to police based on the Raiders jacket he wore with the embroidered ‘RJ’ along the waistband.
The interviewing went surprisingly quickly – Paris suspected that no one had seen a thing, or would admit to it, and he was right – and he was in and out of the scene in less than an hour. He stopped home, found no one there, then drove back to the Justice Center.
Paris called Cyndy, got her voicemail, left a message. He paged her, drew a cup of coffee. After filing the report on the King-Kennedy shooting, he laid out the pictures of the four serial victims on his desk, and realized immediately how ludicrous it was to think that Diana was in any way involved in this. What was wrong with him? Was he that pissed off that she had taken a picture with Tommy Raposo?
Maybe that sap to the back of the head was worse than he thought.
The truth of the matter, Paris conceded, was that he was overworked. The truth of the matter was that he was never going to be comfortable with the idea that Tommy was solely guilty, or even guilty at all of the Pharaoh murders, and it was that feeling, combined with the lack of sleep, that was making him stupid. The truth of the matter was that Diana, Cyndy and Melissa were probably, at that very moment, sitting at Kowloon Garden with a puu-puu platter and three bowls of wonton soup in front of them, trashing the hell out of one John Salvatore Paris, Paranoid Supreme.
That was the truth of the matter. Still, even though he believed all of the above:
He dialed the Kowloon Garden and got a busy signal.
He dialed Diana’s number and got her machine.
He dialed Beth’s number and got her voice mail.
He paged Cyndy again.
He waited.
The kid had the stringy blond hair and multi-colored bicycle shorts that identified him as an urban surfer. As he approached, Paris saw that under his arm was a zippered nylon courier pouch, thus explaining his presence on the sixth floor.
‘Are you Detective Paris?’ the kid asked.
‘Yeah. What’s up?’
‘Sign here, please.’ He held forth a clipboard and a ballpoint pen.
‘What, you guys are seven days a week now?’
‘Yes sir. Twenty-four hours a day, too. Since Feb. one.’ The kid checked his beeper, retrieved his clipboard and handed Paris the package.
Paris flipped him a pair of dollar bills and examined the outside of the cardboard envelope. Beneath the FleetGram logo it read, simply, ‘Det. Jack Paris.’
‘Have a good one,’ the courier said.
‘You too.’ Paris was just about to open the envelope when Brian Sands, one of the desk cops on duty, came lumbering up the steps, papers in hand.
‘Message for you, Jack,’ Sands said, clearly out of shape and out of breath. He put his hands on his knees for a few moments. When he recovered sufficiently, he said, ‘Cyndy Taggart from over at the Fourth called and said to tell you she didn’t see anyone at Public Hall. Said she’s heading over to the Chinese place.’
‘She called the desk?’ Paris asked.
‘Yep.’
‘Why didn’t she just call me?’
Sands just stared at him, as if the question could be anything but rhetorical. Brian Sands was fifty-seven years old, impatient by nature and tired as hell. ‘I don’t know, Jack. We didn’t discuss it.’
‘When did she call?’
‘Ten, fifteen minutes ago, maybe.’ Sands stood in the doorway and arched a single eyebrow, waiting.
‘Oh, uh, thanks, Brian.’
‘Betcha,’ Sands said, and headed down the hall.
Paris sat for a few moments and wondered if Diana and Melissa were already en route to Beth’s place, or if Cyndy was going to catch them at the restaurant. Then he remembered the package on his lap.
He tore open the top of the package and pulled out an envelope, white, unmarked. Inside that was a three-by-five index card with some typing on it. There was also a photograph. When Paris pulled out the picture and turned it over, he felt his breath suddenly lunge through his chest.
The photograph was of him.
It was outdoors, at night, and he was propped against a tree with what looked to be a pearl-handled straight razor in his right hand. Over his left shoulder was the neon Motel Riverview sign. He appeared to be just resting against the tree, as if he were looking down at the razor, but Paris knew for a fact that he was out cold.
On the index card, the message was also quite clear:
Go to Shaker Square. Park directly in front of the florist.
Bring all P files and this material. Speak to no one.
The Hellers? He was being set up by the fucking Hellers?
He didn’t buy it for a minute. Andrea Heller might be a little kinky, her husband might be the kind of guy who drilled holes in the girls’ shower wall when he was in junior high school, but they were no psycho killers.
But if not them, who the hell else was out there in the woods with him that night?
Paris looked at the typeface. It was a standard Times Roman 12-point. Common to just about every word-processing program out there. He found the number for Fleet Courier Services on the outside of the envelope and dialed it.
‘Fleet.’
‘This is Detective John Paris with the Cleveland Police Homicide Unit. I just received a package a few minutes ago and I’d like to ask you a few questions about it.’
‘Sure thing,’ the man replied.
Paris heard the plastic click of the keys and a loud burst of laughter in the background. Outside his own window, a cruiser went by at full speed and full siren. Finally the man said, ‘Yep. Have it right here. Detective Paris at the Justice Center. What can I tell you about it?’
‘I need to know who sent it.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know that, sir.’
‘You don’t have a record of who sent the package?’
‘Well, it’s not required. I mean, if someone is paying cash, as they did in this case, we don’t require a sender’s name or address. We ask, but we don’t demand. The important part is where the package is going.’
‘Where and when was it picked up?’
Paris heard a few more key clicks.
‘It was picked up at six-fifty this evening.’
‘Where?’
‘Six floors beneath you,’ the man said. ‘In the lobby of the Justice Center.’
The file boxes for the Pharaoh case took up the entire front and back seats of Paris’s
car. In all, it amounted to a cargo of nine legal-size storage containers. The boxes were empty of course, but Paris had to play the game, had to maintain appearances until he clamped the irons on this motherfucker. The complications of actually bringing the files with him – legal, ethical, logistical – were enormous, so that was never an option.
Besides, this operation wasn’t going to take anywhere near that long, or get anywhere near that far.
Paris found a space directly in front of the florist on the northwest quadrant. He cut the engine. It had rained briefly and gotten completely dark during the ride out to the square. Except for a few window-shoppers and late RTA commuters, the area was relatively empty of activity. He positioned his rearview mirror and side mirrors to his best advantage and slumped down in the seat.
Soon, a woman approached the window at the florist. She wore an oversized tam-o’-shanter and an overcoat that looked to Paris to be a bit bulky for the fifty-degree evening. She perused the display of flowers for a few moments, hesitated, looking left and right, then moved on. She rounded the corner onto South Moreland and disappeared.
Five minutes later, just as unease began to set in, Paris noticed a white rectangle stuck into the hedges directly in front of the hood of his car. It briefly fluttered into view, then out. It looked like it might have been an envelope, but it was partially hidden in the dark recesses of the hedge. Paris got out, retrieved it and found that it was, in fact, an envelope, sealed, bearing the initials J. P. Inside was another typed three-by-five card, which read:
Leave car unlocked and walk across the square. Stand in front of the theater. Will flash headlights when done.
Shit.
Paris looked around the quadrant, at the scores of shops, office buildings and apartment complexes. He was sure he was being observed, so he shifted to plan B. He closed the car door and walked the 100 or so yards to the far side of Shaker Square, crossing South Moreland against the light, counting his steps, calculating how long it might take him to sprint back across. He stood directly under the brilliant marquee of the Shaker Square Cinemas, and felt the temperature around him increase a degree or two.
Don’t Look Now Page 19
