The Memory Killer (Carson Ryder, Book 11)

by J. A. Kerley

  “Why, Nurse Patrick, are we coming out to play?”

  He listened. “No, I’m not letting you drag me to a yawn bar. I spent my entire weekend with a lovely gentleman, but he was sixty-four and gawwwwd … I need to par-tay. We’ll start at the Stallion and, if we play our cards purr-fectly, get invited to some simply stunning soirée in Miami Beach. Pack your swimsuit,” he giggled. “Or better, still, don’t.”

  He listened again, sighed. “If you must study, I can’t stop you. So I’ll at least see you at Stallion for a drinkie or two. We’ll buzz around for a bit and I’ll leave you to your books while I swim off to the action. Gawd, Patrick, one day you’ll be finished with all this future nonsense and return to the living, right? Yes, you will, yes, you will. Kiss kiss, bye bye, girl, see you at nine.”

  Prestwick went to his bedroom to craft his look, opting for cranberry jeans that molded to his ass, a burgundy suede belt with the word Diva repeated in silver studs around its length, and a skin-tight purple T-shirt with a silver-sequined star in the center. The shoes were gray loafers, Italian, the expensive leather like warm butter − a gift from an admirer.

  For visual depth he added a black silk vest. Oriental in style, with frogs instead of buttons and dragons embroidered in an iridescent black thread down the front panels. Subtle, lovely, and inscrutably expensive, the product of a renowned Taiwanese designer and another gift from another admirer.

  He did have the perfect life, did he not? He could be himself, mostly, which he knew was a wonderful thing. Another wonderful thing was his visage, once described as, “Brad Pitt, the early years”.

  Billy checked the mirror again. Brad never looked so good. He pirouetted like a ballerina, chuckled to himself, and trotted to the living room to finish the joint he’d started prior to tweezing. Outside his front window the sky was moving from orange to cobalt, the air holding that particular magic of late twilight that grants all color five minutes of a soft and surreal incandescence, a gift before the dark. He toked at the weed until it was a smudge in his fingers, tapped it out. When he turned for the door he heard a voice in his head, small, yet clear as bell.

  “Where are you going, Billy?”

  Patrick’s voice, asking one of the questions he’d been asking more and more of late. “Where are you going, Billy?” “What will you do in ten years?” “Who will pay your bills?”

  Patrick telling Billy he wouldn’t stay Billy forever. For a moment Prestwick felt like something heavy had bumped the far side of the planet, and he fought to keep his balance as his vision blurred. He sat on the couch and waited it out. Fucking Patrick, he thought, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. What a downer. What Billy needed was some good drinks and some good laughs and gazes following him in disbelief. Patrick, too.

  Billy dried his eyes again, whispered “party time” and started for the kitchen door that led to the garage, where his Corolla sat, a 2004 model. He simply had to get someone to gift him with a new ride, something precious, like a Miata convertible.

  When he opened the side door to the garage, the doorway framed in trellised vines, he saw not the garage, but a chest, above it a face covered in a black ski mask.

  “You’re looking stunning, Billy,” a voice said.

  Something struck him in the face. The incandescence flew from the night, leaving only a suctioning dark, the sensation of being carried, and the prick of a needle in his thigh.

  33

  Traveling home and back was not normally difficult, two hours I could use to mull over cases. Often I worked from home, advising smaller departments about what to look for in cases where mental aberrations played a role. I became almost adept at teleconferencing, and had even taped a large map of Florida behind my desk at home – a few random pins affixed – giving my televised image a gravitas beyond my initial efforts, backgrounded by a large portrait of Miles Davis holding a trumpet and looking mildly stoned.

  But to put the hours to better usage, I had spent last night at the Palace, taking Miz Morningstar to the roof, she to sip wine as I had read reports by flashlight and tried to find method in Donnie Ocampo’s madness.

  We were up early in the morning and Vivian went to work and I to the hospital to check on our victims. Dale Kemp had pulled from his stupor, his mind dark save for recollections of alien insects with giraffe legs and being trapped somewhere under a pyramid. When shown the altered photos representing Donnie Ocampo he had stared blankly and shaken his head.

  Harold Brighton was being kept sedated as he underwent various operations on his remaining leg, basically a tube of mangled meat filled with bone meal. If all went well he was to be awakened tomorrow.

  Jacob Eisen was still deep within himself, Lonnie Canseco at bedside whenever time permitted. I had twice called Brian Caswell, Brianna, who reported he was trying to get back into performing, but found difficulty recalling lines. He had no further recollections to report.

  I was walking from Eisen’s room when I saw Patrick White waiting in the hall, anxiety written in the green eyes. He cleared his throat. “Can I talk to you for a moment, Detective?”

  “Take all the time you need.”

  He spoke low, his voice touched with fear. “I’m worried about my best friend, Billy Prestwick. He was supposed to meet me last night at a bar, but he never showed up.”

  I nodded to a vacant waiting area, a couch, two chairs and a table scattered with National Geographic and People magazines. I sat in the chair, him the couch.

  “He’s gay?” I asked. “Your friend?”

  “I guess you’d say very.”

  “You’ve tried to reach him everywhere he might be?”

  “His home, friends. I’ve sent him text messages, Facebook messages, tweeted for his whereabouts. No one’s seen him.”

  “First off, has this happened before?” I said. “Not showing up for a get-together?”

  “Yes, but not for months. He’s become more reliable, or maybe less erratic.”

  “Has he been under any stress … financial, personal? Anything that might make him want to get away for a while?”

  “Billy doesn’t do stress. He’s so carefree he cures stress in others.”

  “This bar you were supposed to meet at … was he there before you, maybe went off with someone?”

  “He wasn’t there. People know him, plus he’s hard to forget.”

  I was about to give him my mollification speech, but the fear on his face was past that. “Being a best friend sometimes implies a key,” I suggested.

  “You mean to his place? Sure. I use it to get him inside when he’s had too much to drink.”

  “How about we go check out his digs.”

  Maybe giving White a task would help allay his fear. And from my experience, we just might find the errant Prestwick in his home, too drunk or drugged to answer the phone, or with a lover. Or perhaps Patrick was being less than candid and got into a tiff with his friend, who was now engaging in the no-speak offense. Or maybe the guy had something he wanted to hide and didn’t feel like talking.

  I knew that one from my brother.

  Prestwick lived near Highway 953 in a small house with a garage a few trellis-lined paces from the dwelling. I heard the house’s air conditioner wheezing as we exited the Rover. Palmettos flanked the rickety front porch and White opened the door. I checked the lockset: intact.

  I followed White into a living room furnished with a leather couch, overstuffed chair, table, a bookcase in the corner. The walls were a pale green, an old but decent Persian carpet on the floor. The table held an empty wine bottle, a couple spent beer cans, a full ashtray, a nail file and one rolled-up white sock.

  “Check it out, Patrick,” I said. “Anything look out of place?”

  He disappeared down a short hall to the bedroom, bath, returned a minute later. “As messy as usual.”

  “No sign of a fight, struggle? Furniture out of place? Things fallen off shelves?”

  “It’s like he was here a minute ago.”


  “Any messages on the phone?”

  “Billy doesn’t have a landline, just the cell and tablet.”

  I drove Patrick back to the hospital. The temperature was in the mid-nineties, and we spoke with the windows closed and our conversation backgrounded by muted traffic sounds as I wove through downtown Miami. “The perpetrator has been snatching folks from bars after spiking their drinks, Patrick,” I said. “That’s been his MO. If Billy wasn’t seen at any bars last night, it’s a good sign.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself. But Billy’s a social-media junkie. Not responding means he’s been away from his phone and tablet. It’s not normal – they’re his lifeline to, well, life.”

  “I gotta ask …” I said, cutting the wheel to pass a city bus. “You’re sure you guys didn’t have a lover’s quarrel, Patrick? That Billy’s avoiding you? It usually blows over.”

  “We’re not involved sexually, never have been. Maybe it’s one of the reasons we’re so close. And whenever Billy has a, uh, problem like that, I’m the one he comes crying to.”

  I looked at the clock in the dash. “Your buddy’s been gone since nine last night?”

  “That’s when I was supposed to meet him.”

  “How about I take you to the station and you can file a Missing Persons report. Technically, it won’t take effect for several hours, but I can schmooze it past. It means local cops will be on the lookout for Billy. Be great if you could come up with a photo, head shot is best.”

  He pulled his phone as I turned to MDPD headquarters. “Gimme a minute, Detective. Billy’s filled every social medium out there with selfies.”

  “Selfies?”

  “Shots of himself. In every possible outfit and expression.” White flipped through files and angled the phone my way. “How’s this?”

  I stopped at a red light and leaned to look at the phone. Except for the unruly mop of tinsel slightly less strident than a fresh dime, the guy looked like a young Brad Pitt. His head was cocked and the wide mouth held a know-it-all grin.

  “Perfect,” I said.

  I’d had no contact with Rodrigo Figueroa since our initial dust-up, but Roy had found the guy easy to deal with. I saw Figueroa standing by the coffee urn in the center of the room and wandered that way, wondering which version I’d get. He was on the phone smiling until he seemed to glance our way. He glared at the phone and booked for the door, pulling his jacket off as he went.

  “Detective Figueroa!” I called. But he was moving fast and disappeared through the door, the jacket seemingly stuck between his head and arm, Styrofoam coffee cup clenched in his lips. Must have been some phone call.

  “Who’s that?” White asked as the door swung shut.

  “Speedy Gonzales, by the look of things.”

  We went to the Missings desk where a young officer named Juanita Rosell appeared. I explained the situation, embellishing only slightly, and she took the report and Patrick’s downloaded photo, promising to get the info processed and out as fast as possible.

  “My good buddy, Rod,” I said, again embellishing. “He was here one minute, gone the next. You know where he went?”

  Rosell shrugged. “Got me. Rod doesn’t usually move that fast unless it’s quitting time.”

  Billy Prestwick now an official Missing Person, White and I continued to the hospital. “Have faith, bud,” I called to his back when I dropped him off and he slumped away.

  Truth be told, my mollifications had worked on me about as much as they had on White. He knew his friend well, and was worried sick. So was I, but there was little to be done but hope William T. Prestwick showed up soon, guilt in his eyes and an apology on his lips.

  34

  My next stop was at the comic-book shop to see how Gary was faring. The ubiquitous clerk, Jonathan, was meeting with a gaggle of young customers holding skateboards. Like Jonathan, two of the boarders were wearing heavy knit hats. Ninety-four degrees out and they’ve upholstered their skulls; fashion is a cruel mistress.

  When the boarders trouped from the store with comics under their arms, I went to Jonathan. “Gary’s upstairs, I take it?”

  “He hasn’t been down in days.”

  “He taking his walks around the block? Using the treadmill?” I figured Gary Ocampo on the rolling track would make a sound like a cement mixer filled with marbles.

  “I hear the bed creaking. The TV. And then there’s these guys.”

  I followed his eyes to the front door and saw a delivery truck pull up outside, magnetic roof sign saying Angelo’s Pizza Express. A wizened old guy pushed through the door with a huge pizza carton in hand.

  “Got a super-large pep-saus-mush, ex chee and anchovies,” he said. “Be twenty seventy-five.”

  Jonathan paid the guy. I could hear a muffled television from upstairs and figured Gary was too busy watching to turn on his downstairs monitor.

  The delivery guy left the shop and Jonathan sighed and started toward the elevator with the box.

  “I’ll deliver it,” I told Jonathan, taking the pizza from his hands.

  I exited the lift to see Gary propped up in bed staring at a blaring television, a hodge-podge of newspapers at his side. “Run to the fridge and grab me a mango cola, will you, Jon?” Gary commanded, eyes not leaving the screen. “Put it in my big red cup.”

  I stepped forward, lifting the box like a prize. “Howdy, Gary. I brought lunch.”

  He saw me, registered surprise and hid it quickly. He flicked off the television as I shot a glance at the trash can: fast-food bags, two crumpled pizza cartons, Chinese takeout cartons.

  “Uh … thanks,” he said, a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar, grunting from his bed in voluminous denim jeans and a gray sweatshirt Morningstar and I could have used as a hammock. His feet were in dirty-soled white socks.

  I shot another glance at the trash bucket. He’d slickly covered it with a newspaper in the split second when I’d glanced away, sneaky-fast when he needed to be. Not being his aunt or his counselor or his conscience, I didn’t mention the ele-pizza in the room.

  “I was reading the paper,” he frowned as he lowered to the chair. “A missing man showed up injured. It doesn’t quite say how, just ‘serious’.”

  “It was Donnie, Gary.”

  “I fucking knew it,” he moaned. “What really happened?”

  “The victim had his, uh, tongue removed.”

  His eyes closed and he was seeing terrible things. “Why?” was all he could whisper.

  I went to the window, needing to see beyond this cloistered room smelling of fish and meat and garlic. “The victim used to be a kind of a wise-ass, big on insulting people,” I said. “Maybe he ragged on Donnie in the past. Or called your brother names when he was abducted.”

  “HE’S NOT MY BROTHER!” Gary screamed.

  I spun, surprised by his outburst. “What?”

  He stared at me, huge fists balling and releasing. “Whatever he is, he’s a nasty fucking monster. My brother wouldn’t be a monster. He’d be A FRIEND!”

  “We’ve discussed this, Gary,” I said. “Whatever Donnie is, it’s no reflection on you.”

  He started to say something, paused, slumped to the bathroom and slammed the door. I continued to stare out the window, spotting the unmarked surveillance unit a few parking slots down the block. MDPD didn’t have the manpower, so I used FCLE newbies undergoing the FCLE version of Police Academy. The majority were already cops, hired away from other departments. But they were learning the FCLE way of doing things, strict and stringent and by-the-book professional, at least until you made it to my level, where you could do about anything you wanted, as long as it seemed to fit legal boundaries and worked. It was like writing or painting or architecture: you had to learn the rules before you could break them.

  I heard the toilet flush and a minute later Gary reappeared, sucking water from his red cup, his burst of anger drained into sorrow. He re-sat the chair. “I was thinking, Detective Ryder … uh, do you th
ink the victims would meet with me when they recover?”

  I frowned. “There a reason?”

  “I’m responsible for their pain and troubles.”

  “That doesn’t make sense, Gary.”

  The massive shoulders shrugged. “Not like I tried to kidnap them. But it was … my twin, Detective, my flesh and blood that did the terrible things.” He thought a moment and gave me a hopeful look. “Maybe … could you ask if they’d see me, just for a few minutes. It would make me feel better.”

  “They’ve been wounded, Gary. Physically and mentally. It’s not time for meetings.”

  I felt sorry for Gary Ocampo. He was trying to do something decent, and I was shutting him down. He canted his head as if taken by a sudden thought.

  “What about the fellow that got away? He wasn’t injured, right?”

  “Derek Scott? I’m not sure he’d understand why you—”

  “Please ask him. Please? All he can do is say no, right?”

  “You should expect it.”

  He frowned, as if figuring a way to sweeten the deal. “DVDs – tell him I’ve got some of the coolest movies around. He can have his choice if he comes to see me for just a couple minutes. I’ll fill a box for him. Or if he wants comics he can have all the new releases he wants. But mention the DVDs. Tell him I have videos.”

  DVDs. Comic books. Gary using a currency he knew. All I could do was ask. Maybe it would help keep Gary from a fast-food self-blitzkrieg.

  I pulled my phone in the Rover. When on a case I create phone directories of all pertinent parties, so Derek Scott was listed. He answered on the fifth ring.

  “Hello, Detective. I’ve been trying but so far nothing new.”

  “Keep trying, but don’t worry if the memories don’t come. How you feeling?”

  “Almost normal. Sometimes I’ll h-hear a voice and turn to see no one there, b-but Dr Costa thinks that’ll eventually go away.”

  “Doc Costa knows his stuff. I think you received excellent care.”

  “A-around the clock … from all the doctors and nurses. I s-sent everyone thank-you notes.”