The fact that his victims so far had been white was simply because of opportunity. No others had presented him with the chance, due to location. The area too well lit, or their proximity to other hookers that might remember him and his car, there had always been some reason to reject them. Paul always used extreme care and allowed sufficient time to make his selection, and his topmost prerequisite was that the woman had to be alone. It had nothing to do with color. It gave him a burst of pride to know that he was colorblind.
Last night he’d driven around a few blocks and gone back to where the girl had been standing only to find her gone. He remembered the African-American girl as being beautiful. Long and lean with well-toned arms and legs, she was young and strong. She would be fun. And, if anyone somehow managed to connect it, she wouldn’t fit his (or should he say Mason’s) profile, which would add another measure of protection.
***
After making his notes in the Janet Hilton ledger, Jimmy made sure that his office door was locked and that the ‘closed’ sign showed. He reset the answering machine to pick up on the first ring. He wanted to enjoy the suspense and preferred not to be disturbed, even by a new client. It was Saturday. They could leave a message.
With his coffee cup refilled, he went back to his desk, pushed the chair back out of the way, and opened the middle drawer. Getting down on his knees, which thankfully weren’t as painful as a few days earlier, he reached up above where the drawer usually sat and tore the thick envelope loose from its aging yellow tape. He was curious and not a little excited to find out what was inside. He hoped the mystery would be entertaining and couldn’t help thinking he deserved a little pleasure after the last few days.
The glue that sealed the envelope was dry and worn out. It gave easily, as if eager to amuse him. Inside were several sheets of legal-size paper. When he spread the sheets out, Jimmy was stunned to find a Last Will and Testament for a Darren Lee Wurtsmith. The name sounded vaguely familiar. He searched his mind for any recollection, but could remember nothing. Quickly scanning the six sheets of paper, he noted that the man had considerable holdings and several children by different wives. Mr. Wurtsmith was, or had been, a man of means.
That was it! He remembered now. Darren Lee Wurtsmith was a rich playboy that didn’t seem to be able to live ten minutes without a woman, or most times, several, even when he’d been so old that babies, and the usual method of acquiring them, should have been out of the question. His progeny ranged from the age of sixty down to a preteen at the time of his death. Ahead of each divorce, the next Missus would already be lined up in the wings. His fortune had been considerable, but by the time it was settled with as many divisions as such a large family demanded, each offspring inherited only moderate wealth. Only several million apiece. Jimmy recalled the fight the families had put up, each demanding their share and not caring if the other half-siblings got a dime or not. He remembered hearing about a boy, his name was Bryan, or Bobby, or something, who had magically popped out of the woodwork. His mother, one of Wurtsmith’s nurses, claimed he was a love child. Considering the boy was only three when the old man died at eighty-eight, the news programs had a field day with it and the families hotly contested her petition. As Jimmy remembered it, the families had won.
He reread the beneficiaries listed before him more carefully. There it was. Bryan Lee Ervine, son and beneficiary. The boy’s name was handwritten in a shaky script that might have been Wurtsmith’s own. It had been witnessed and signed by a woman whose name Jimmy wasn’t familiar with. He guessed she might have been another nurse. A second signature was of a bodyguard; one of the three that Wurtsmith hired for twenty-four hour protection. Jimmy wondered if they were to protect him from his many business enemies or from his family. Sometimes money buys you nothing but trouble.
The lengthy, messy court battle had been in the news at least ten years back. The child, who must now be in his early teens, had been proven by DNA not to be Wurtsmith’s. But here was a will to dispute that. If the signature was Wurtsmith’s and the date was after the will the court had on record, then this document was going to add kindling to a long-smoldering fire.
Jimmy sat back in his chair, debating what to do. Maybe he should just stay out of it. It wouldn’t be smart to bring his name up. That would be just what happened if he took the will to the authorities. His name and face would end up plastered all over the newspapers; the scandal magazines would have a field day. Some people would assume he had an ulterior motive, wanting a reward or maybe a finder’s fee. Some would believe he worked for the Ervines and that the document was a fake. There were a lot of rich people that wouldn’t like him very much, which couldn’t be good for him no matter how you looked at it. Rich people make vicious enemies. They have the power and means to make your life miserable. When his old buddies at the precinct heard about it, he would be considered too Hollywood for them. Show-boaters were never appreciated in a precinct. You had to work too closely, too many hours, in too confined a space with everyone there. He might as well kiss that hoped-for rehire goodbye forever.
But, there was a woman out there, a mother trying to raise her son alone. Even if Bryan wasn’t the old man’s kid, he’d apparently wanted him to inherit an equal share. Jimmy took another sip of his coffee. Coffee that had managed to get cold while he’d been thinking. He grimaced. Coffee tastes so bitter when it’s cold. He didn’t know why he bothered. Drinking it was just a habit acquired by too many long hours on the job. But he was darned if he could quit. He didn’t enjoy headaches that much. As he set the cup down his eyes were drawn to the initials carved into the desk. ‘DLW’. Darren Lee Wurtsmith. Couldn’t be a coincidence. The envelope had been taped to the desk’s underbelly, so the desk at one time must have belonged to Wurtsmith. Why was it now located in a drafty downtown office? This was something Jimmy had to find out. Even if in retrospect it proved ill-fated, he was pleased to think that he’d solved the mystery of the initials. But at what cost? This packet had developed into quite a can of worms and the weather wasn’t conducive to fishing.
He guessed there was no way around it, and felt it was a dirty shame. He would have to contact Ms. Ervine’s attorney and turn the document over. Maybe they could be persuaded to leave Jimmy’s name out of the whole thing. It was all he could hope for.
***
“Hey, Paul. Want to grab a bite in the motel’s restaurant?” Det. Michael Sorenson asked. He was a detective that Paul had teamed with earlier on a case that had bridged their two jurisdictions. Det. Sorenson worked out of the Dayton precinct, forty miles from Cincinnati. Although not a homicide case, Paul had willingly taken it when the commander had asked for volunteers. The victim had been a kidnapped child, the case one of the worst kind. Because of the combined efforts of Paul and Michael, the seven-year-old had been found alive. But not unscathed. She would carry emotional and physical scars for the rest of her life. Michael had been devastated over the horrific manner in which she’d been treated. He’d been angry and blamed himself for not finding her earlier. He’d spoken to Paul about the toll such cases levied upon him and received the unsatisfactory answer that they’d done all they could. Paul thought the girl was lucky to have survived at all. He didn’t understand Michael’s guilt. It was an illogical emotion. Paul wasn’t a child molester. He had done his job, and done it well. The little girl was home with her parents. He was blameless. Michael’s emotions were a mystery and Paul’s curiosity as to why he felt that way was one reason he tolerated his company. Michael never suspected that he was a slide under the microscope. And it never occurred to him that Paul felt differently than he did.
At the moment, all Paul could think about were the plans he had for that night. He was afraid his face and mood would give away the wild exhilaration that he felt. He attempted to beg out.
“Ah, come on. You’ve got to eat,” Michael continued. It was plain he wa
sn’t going to take no for an answer. “I thought we’d go to the bar afterward for a couple of hours and charm a barmaid or two into following us upstairs. What’s the matter? Don’t you feel lucky, punk?” he asked in a poor Dirty Harry imitation, his voice a raspy whisper.
Paul grinned, deciding he might as well go along. What was he going to do for the next seven or eight hours? Sit in his room and watch TV with his mind going over possible scenarios, getting more and more worked up? Hours had to be killed before his upcoming, much anticipated rodeo, and it was probably best to get his mind off it for at least a little while.
“All right, but you’ll buy the beer. And I’m not staying out all night either. A couple of hours are plenty and two beers enough. As for female companionship, I’ll pass. The gals here in Indianapolis are wise to country boys. I don’t plan to lose what little extra money I brought with me. I’m just a poor underpaid detective, not like you.”
“How do you figure that? I get the same wages you do.”
“Oh yeah, right. We both know Dayton pays better. Cinci’s a cheap old bitch; she takes and takes and doesn’t give back. Our only claim to fame is Spike TV’s ‘Cops’, and that’s more infamy than fame. In Cinci, murder’s our favorite hobby, and hobbies can be expensive and dangerous to your health if you’re not careful,” Paul said with more honesty than Michael could ever suspect.
Chapter 13
True to his word, Michael bought the first beer. And he also found a couple of suspiciously well-dressed ladies to join them at their table. Paul wasn’t happy with the development, but Michael seemed oblivious to his displeasure. Michael was young and single and if he wanted to pay for a woman’s attentions, Paul didn’t intend to interfere. The man was old enough to know what he was doing and to suffer the consequences if it turned out wrong. Paul knew that he wouldn’t risk it. Not that night.
He understood Michael’s urgent craving. And that it wasn’t smart to use the services of a call girl in your own precinct. It could put an end to your career. Back in Cincinnati Paul had developed a system. He only visited hookers on the opposite side of town from where the prostitution squad was working. They would be taking down johns on the north side while he visited the south. Paul was suspicious as to why these girls were in a motel that was full of cops. One that was hosting a law enforcement conference. He didn’t think it likely that the Indianapolis precinct had undercover plants, but who knew? Surely they wouldn’t risk the field day the papers would have if they got word of cops busting cops? He hoped Michael knew what he was doing.
Amber and Coral wore shoes that had to sport at least six inches of heel. They weren’t short women, so Amber towered over Michael, not that he seemed to care. He was smitten. Even with the shoes, Coral was still a couple of inches shorter than Paul’s six-foot-two height. They were both pretty girls and either could have done well in bonafide modeling professions. Maybe that work was harder.
Paul leaned back in his chair and studied the women. Michael had led Amber back to the table by the hand, leaving no doubt as to his choice. Paul could understand it. She was striking, with the long legs, strong cheekbones, and Ethiopian eyes that were like deep oval pools. He turned his attention to Coral. Lighter skinned but just as pretty, she had a regal bearing and an intelligent expression. She was a jaw-dropping beauty, actually, who returned his stare, studying him as much as he was her. Their eyes met and held a few seconds before she dropped them and nervously looked away making him wonder what she’d read there.
Paul realized he had opened a window, allowing the woman to peek into his soul. He suddenly knew his yearnings and urges had shown themselves, had been exposed there in plain view. He couldn’t help feeling anxious as he realized what he’d been thinking, which was the intense pleasure he would derive from positioning his hands just so on her neck and tightening, gradually tightening, watching her expression turn from a playful tease to one of horror. He didn’t understand how, but he was positive that somehow this woman knew.
No, that was impossible. He hadn’t said a word. There was no way she could know what he’d been thinking. Maybe she’d felt something, the barest flutter of something wrong. She may have an acute sense of self-preservation; similar to a deer in the woods stalked by a wolf.
But there was no humanly possible way this woman could know.
“Have you lived here long?” Paul asked. He was calm, self-confident now, master of his universe.
“For three years. I’m originally from San Francisco,” Coral replied, her voice scratchy. She rubbed at the base of her throat; it was unaccountably sore.
“What are you doing here? This winter had to have sucked compared to what you’re used to.”
“It did. I was hoping that I’d be used to it by now, but nope, guess not. I’m thinking of going back.”
“I would. Indiana just can’t compare.”
Paul looked at her and smiled, satisfied. They understood each other and, unless he was reading more into it than was suggested, she didn’t intend to stick around, a potential problem solved.
“Yeah, I’ll be leaving next week. In fact, I’ll get my bus ticket Monday morning, if I’m not sick in bed with another cold.”
Amber looked at Coral with her mouth open. This was the first she’d heard of her friend’s plans.
Michael popped up, “Well, let me buy a round, a going-away drink for the young lady. I’m sure Indianapolis will be sorry to see you go; I know we will. But our loss will be California’s gain.” He’d been completely oblivious to the strain between Paul and Coral, only pouncing upon her announcement as another means to party.
“I’ll drink to your safe journey,” Paul said, looking into Coral’s eyes. “But then I’m going to turn in. I’ve had a long day and tomorrow promises to be another.”
“Yeah, I’m going home, too. I don’t feel so well tonight. Sorry, Amber. I’m afraid we’ll have to leave early.”
“I can give you a lift,” Michael interrupted again, turning quickly back to Amber. His intentions were readily apparent. It even showed in the intense, alert posture of his body as he sat in his chair staring hopefully at the young woman.
“Michael will get me home,” Amber said. “I’m sorry you’re sick, babe. I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
***
Paul forced himself to wait until the motel clock said it was 1:00 a.m. There was no sense going out early. There was too much chance of being seen. Too much chance of being remembered. At this time of the morning, some of the girls and the pretty boys that worked their corners would have retired for the night. It narrowed the selection, but it cut down the number of eyes watching.
He got in his car and headed back to where he’d seen the black girl. She’d left the corner by the time he’d returned the night before. He hoped she would be there now; she was interesting. His excitement was enough to make his heart pound loudly in his ears.
There she was! Leaning back against a building so casually, so nonchalantly, her long legs emphasized by shiny black pumps and a miniskirt that from where it was buttoned at her waist to the hem couldn’t have measured eight inches. Unlike the night before, her arms were covered with a soft, fluffy fabric that he wanted to pet. The red mohair sweater was so low cut in front that it did more than suggest what nature had blessed her with. It flaunted it.
He pulled up to her corner and waved her inside.
“Are you a cop?” Sydney Ann asked, a scowl on her pretty face. “You look like one.”
“Not likely,” he said. “If I was, I’d hassle some of those old skags that shouldn’t be out here at all, rather than harass a pretty thing like you. You’re gorgeous, girl.”
Sydney Ann smiled and climbed into the car. She’d known she was the best on the block, in fact, the best for many blocks no matter the direction. It was nice to have someone else point that out, though.
Even if it was a john that was probably hoping for a break on the price.
“Sixty bucks. Your choice,” she said suspiciously, holding the door open for a quick escape. Her face wore the unasked question, waiting for his decision before she would settle in and he could put the car in drive.
Paul nodded. It was best not to say too much, just agree. This pretty little girl with the long legs seemed nervous enough.
“Bill,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Sydney Ann,” she replied, shaking his hand once, having determined that he would pay the fee. Unaware of the savagery awaiting her, she pulled the door shut, and settled back in the seat. It was the worst decision of her life.
Chapter 14
Sydney Ann looked around the dreary room. Depressingly similar to all the others she frequented, this one was a washed-out brown, with what may have once been blue accents now faded to gray. Dusty, smelling of cigarettes and unappealingly of body odor, it was bargain basement priced. At least this guy had the foresight to secure a room, better than some that expected their services done in the nearest alley, although Sydney Ann wasn’t prejudiced against alleys, if the money was right. It was far speedier, getting her back at her corner without wasting precious time. But a real bed was the best. Besides getting her off her feet and out of those new heels that painfully pinched her toes, it was more civilized. She thought sex out in the weather with only a dumpster to hide behind was barbaric. Those men that wanted it that way, or couldn’t afford anything else, didn’t deserve her best efforts. Oh, she had plenty of skill, enough to get it over with quickly, but there was no finesse involved. Sydney Ann had talent and looks, maybe good enough for the movies (to be in a porn flick was a dream of hers), but too bad for those cheapos; they would never find out.
A Cincinnati Cold Case Page 8
