“Jesus Christ!” Nick spoke into his receiver. “10-4.” He looked at Bannon. “Still convinced it’s just pre-Founder’s Day Fair jitters?”
The young officer looked stricken.
“Let’s go.”
The Man Without a Face
Beverly Simon, with twenty minutes between appointments, sat on the divan in the parlor, phone to her ear as her ex-husband, Trevor Keece, thought of more excuses to prolong the conversation. “I already told you, I don’t give a damn what you do with it,” she told him. “If I didn’t bring it with me, I don’t want it.”
“But … but your photo albums. With our wedding pictures! Don’t you want those?” His voice was slurred, redolent of what he called his “noon cocktail,” which was just a tasteful term for his fifth or sixth midday beer.
Beverly gritted her teeth. “Use them for firewood for all I care.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I wou-”
“Then you could just pretend none of this ever happened! That we never happened!”
“If I’d known what I was getting into, Trevor, we never would have.”
He made a series of appalled sounds. “You can’t mean that!”
“Stop contacting me. It’s over, and if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll get a restraining order.” She hung up the phone and waited for him to call back. He didn’t, and she took this as a sign that the divorce was slowly sinking into his thick, beer-addled brain.
“What was I thinking?” she asked the empty room. “I knew better.” And she had. All the signs were there, yet somehow, stupidly, she’d believed him when he’d said his drinking was under control. It had been, for a while, but soon, it came roaring back, making up for lost time.
She thought of Nick Grayson. He had all the qualities she was attracted to: He was tall, absurdly handsome, self-confident, and authoritative. And an alcoholic to boot. She sighed. At least he’s in A.A., she thought. And has a priest for a sponsor! That’s got to count for something. But she was getting ahead of herself. Attractive though he was, Beverly needed to stay away from men for a while.
As she stood, she was assailed by unbidden images.
A fiery ball shoots across the sky, hitting the earth. There’s a bright blaze, then the fire dies. She sees a man. It’s Madison’s friend, the one who dropped Abby Strane off on her porch the day of the flood. He is crouched on the concrete of what appears to be a parking lot. He wears no shirt, no pants.
He looks up and Beverly can’t see anything but his shimmering eyes. They blaze with fury, glinting like silver discs.
At his back, great black wings flare out, blooming like time-lapsed roses, their tips edged with fire.
“My God.” The whisper slips out of her, and the angel’s eyes shift, pinning her in his stare. “Who … who are you? Please,” Beverly says. “Tell me who you are.”
* * *
Alejandro had come to love his time alone. Though he very much enjoyed Madison’s company, he felt out of place at the shop; she was too busy to talk to him, and mostly, he had to remain in the back room, reading books. Not that he didn’t love books - they were probably his favorite thing after Madison and honey and before Tomorrow’s Singing Stars, but when he was by himself, he was free to wander without the encumbrance of itchy, hot garments. He thought of the red and yellow one that the policeman, Nick Grayson had worn. If I must wear garments, why can’t I have something with lots of color? He frowned at his beige Winkie the Golden Hedgehog sweatshirt that lay in a heap on the couch next to the recliner.
He poured honey into his mouth. That was another reason he liked being alone: He could have all the honey he wanted, which was a lot.
On the television, a young man sang about roses having thorns while people cheered and judges looked surprised that he was such a good singer. I wonder if I am a good singer. He’d tried once in the shower after seeing a commercial of a woman singing while she laundered herself, but he quickly realized the only songs he knew were strange hymns in a language he couldn’t remember. He could recite the words, but their meanings were lost. It had frightened him and he hadn’t tried again. But perhaps now I could sing about things like roses and thorns. He knew what those were, though he wasn’t especially fond of them after having fallen off the roof and being injured. No, I will sing about nicer things than roses and thorns. I will sing about love, and perhaps I will have such a nice voice that Madison will be less irritated by me. Or maybe she will love me, like I love her. He squeezed more honey into his mouth.
“Who are you?” The voice did not come from the television.
Alejandro looked around but saw no one. He thought of the man who had come into his dreams, telling him they were brothers, but this was not his brother. This was a woman’s voice and he could feel her presence.
“Please, tell me who you are … ”
He blinked. “I am Alejandro.”
The voice said no more.
* * *
When Nick Grayson arrived at O’Riley’s Rocks, the place was dead. No doubt, the townspeople were hidden away on their phones, spreading word of Howard Blackburn’s death at Vang’s Bangs. Nick had the witnesses - and Rebecca McNair - taken in. Lawyers were called, reports were filed, tears were shed, and medical examiner Andrew Morley had pronounced the man dead. As if there’d been any doubt.
Stranger than the crime itself was the behavior of the salon clients. The four women had agreed on what happened: Rebecca McNair had no choice but to cut Howard Blackburn’s throat with a straight razor. But why everyone but Evelyn Vang was covered in blood was a mystery. They claimed they’d panicked and were trying to help. How they got blood on their faces and in their hair … well, that was an answer he couldn’t get.
As far as he could tell, Evelyn Vang was the only one in her right mind. Lena Harding, Diana Stout, Cloris Riddley, and Barbara Parker had said all they were going to on the matter, but the investigation was far from over.
The bells chimed as he entered O’Riley’s Rocks and he tried not to grimace when he laid eyes on Dette Watkiss.
“Chief Grayson,” she said. “Can I help you find anything?”
“I’m looking for Madison.” He saw her shelving books and turned to head over when Dette touched his wrist.
“Chief? Is it true? About what happened at the beauty salon? We’ve heard rumors, but-”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
“Oh, of course.”
He made to walk away but she tightened her grip. “Before you go … I owe you an apology. I, uh, wasn’t myself the other night, and I feel terrible about what happened. I didn’t mean to ruin everyone’s dinner.” Her face looked haggard - as if she hadn’t slept in days. He saw a few gray hairs.
“Don’t sweat it.” But I won’t be inviting you to my barbecue.
“Seriously. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you …” Her eyes wandered down his body, settling on his crotch.
Nick pulled away. “It wasn’t my party, Ms. Watkiss. It’s not me you should be apologizing to.” He walked away and found Madison.
She looked up at him, smiling. “Chief.”
“Nick.”
She stood. “Nick. How are you?”
He gave her a dry smile. “Could be worse, that’s for sure. Look, I heard back from the private investigator I contacted in regard to the book cover model.” In his periphery, Dette hovered nearby, undoubtedly trying to overhear. “I wondered if we could go somewhere and talk. I could really use something to eat. Join me for lunch?”
“Sure. I hope you didn’t find out anything … bad.”
Nick shook his head. “Not bad. Just strange.”
“Well, that’s nothing new.”
“You’re telling me. Can you head out now? There’s a lot going on and I really can’t afford to be gone more than maybe an hour.”
“Sure. Dette?” she called out.
“Yes?” Dette Watkiss ap
peared around a bookshelf, looking too casual.
“Can you watch the store?”
“I’ll finish those for you.” She crouched over the books on the floor, her eyes back on Nick’s crotch.
His scrotum crawled.
“I just need to get my purse,” said Madison.
“Don’t bother. It’s my treat.”
“In that case, where do you want to eat?”
Nick considered and said, “Anywhere but Roxie’s.” He looked down, startled to see that Dette’s face was just inches from his business. Her eyes were closed, nostrils flaring, lips parted as she inhaled him. What the blue fuck! He stepped back, stunned, and called to Madison, his voice cracking, “I’ll be waiting in the cruiser.”
* * *
People were fucking like flies in spring, and Eric Cooterman didn’t want to miss out on a single affair, extramarital or otherwise. Sick of his day job, he’d found a new profession: pornographic website owner and administrator. And spy. His new website, Secret Lives and Jaded Housewives, was booming with over one hundred and fifty thousand hits - and counting. He owed it all to the lascivious citizens of Prominence - and his own investigative skills, of course.
Cooter was tired of coloring inside the lines. He was sick of reporting what the local paper deemed fit. It seemed far more profitable to him - and much more interesting - to give the paying public what they really wanted: Sucking, fucking, great big schlongs, and more tits and ass than you could shake a sticky dildo at.
Hidden behind a full fir tree in Malcolm Wagborne’s backyard, he pointed his zoom lens at the bedroom window, focused it, and waited impatiently while Wagborne undid his tie. Silently, he willed the man to give it to his wife dirt-box-style, like he had before.
“Come on, Waggy,” Cooter whispered. “Do it again.”
He trained the lens on Wagborne’s wife as she knelt on the bed, bent forward, and raised the black and white frilly skirt of her French maid’s uniform. She wore no panties.
“Yes, that’s it.” Cooter clicked his camera.
Malcolm Wagborne tickled a feather duster up the insides of his wife’s thighs and dusted her cooch as he stroked himself over his gray slacks.
With his free hand, Cooter did the same, unzipping his fly as the comfortable sound of the shutter opened and closed. Click-click-click. “Come on, Waggy. Do it!” He stroked and clicked, stroked and clicked, impressed by his own multi-tasking skills. “Give it to her in the rusty bullet hole again.”
At last, Malcolm Wagborne did just that, and Cooter’s camera clicked rapid-fire, like a machine gun of sin.
* * *
Madison chose El Santo Cuchara’s, a quaint, out-of-the-way Mexican restaurant with Saltillo-tiled floors and Mexican artwork on the walls. The waitress seated them at an isolated back table below a dim hanging lamp.
Madison ordered huevos rancheros and watched in awe as Nick ordered half the menu: Two beef chimichangas with Spanish rice, carnitas tostadas, one chili verde enchilada, and one chicken and cheese quesadilla with sides of guacamole and sour cream and extra salsa. After rattling off his order, he smiled at her and began dipping into the tortilla chips on the table, not the least bit self-conscious, which she admired.
The waitress took their menus and disappeared. Crunching a mouthful of chips, Nick pushed the bowl to Madison. She took one and nibbled it, wondering how on earth the man wasn’t as wide as he was tall. She made a mental note to prepare triple the amount next time she had him over for dinner. Even if Dette hadn’t interrupted them the other night, Nick Grayson surely would have left Madison’s still hungry.
She didn’t have much of an appetite. There was too much on her mind. “So …?” she prompted the chief. “Did you find anything out about the book cover?”
At last, Nick swallowed. “I talked to my P.I., Toby Tavers. He’s the best in the business.”
“So, what did he find?”
Nick bit into a fresh chip. “He contacted the publisher, no problem, and they put him in touch with the cover artist, but that’s where it gets weird.”
“Weird how?”
“The artist claims the model on the book cover was a product of her imagination.”
“What does that mean?”
“That the guy doesn’t exist.”
She hesitated. “That’s not possible.”
Nick shrugged. “That’s what I said, but how can we argue with the artist herself?”
“But … but you saw the book cover! It’s him. It’s Alejandro.”
“I did see it, and I’d agree that it’s him, except it’s not him. One hell of a coincidence, if you ask me.” He crunched another chip. “But it happens. They say everybody has a double.”
But it was him, she thought. Right down to shape of the eyes. “I don’t believe it.”
“You said yourself that if it was Alejandro on the cover of that book, he’d have to be well into his thirties now. And we both know that’s not true.”
“You’re right. But that’s a remarkable similarity, don’t you think?”
“So remarkable I’d say it’s goddamned creepy.” He shrugged. “But that’s the only explanation.” He scooped salsa onto a chip. “I’ve sent his picture on the wire, but I haven’t heard a thing back. Evidently no one has reported him missing.”
Madison was stunned. On one hand she was relieved the cop hadn’t found anything out. It meant that Alejandro wouldn’t be leaving, not right away, anyhow.
Nick cleared his throat. “There’s something else I want to discuss with you. Unofficially and confidentially.” The waitress brought waters and Nick gulped half of his down before diving back into the chips.
“Sure.”
“This is off the record.” Nick leaned in. “You’ve lived here in Prominence your entire life, right?”
“Right.”
“And you wouldn’t call what’s going on around here normal, would you? The beauty parlor murder, for instance.”
Madison considered. “Things get a little weird before Founder’s Day but …”
Nick sighed. “I think there’s something wrong with the water or something.”
“The water?”
“I know. It sounds far-fetched. And it probably is, but until I have more to go on, I can’t help thinking there’s some kind of mineral or even a drug, or hell, maybe a hormone, that’s gotten into the water supply. Something.”
“But that doesn’t explain why some people are acting crazy and others aren’t.” Madison pointed a corn chip at the chief. “Dette doesn’t even live in town and I’ve never seen her drink anything but bottled water, and she’s acting nuts.” She paused. “The way she was the other night … that’s not her.”
“I need to find a connection. There’s got to be common ground among the locals who have gone … well, crazy.” He looked at her. “Do you drink the tap water?”
“I do.”
“And you haven’t been feeling … different?”
“Not at all.” Madison could practically see his gears turning.
“Rebecca McNair,” Nick said.
“What about her?”
“How well do you know her?”
“Not very. We went to school together but didn’t run in the same circles.”
“Does she strike you as the type to cut a man’s throat with a straight razor in broad daylight?”
The image turned Madison’s stomach. “No. Not at all.”
“Me neither. I ran a background check and there’s not one black mark to her name. Do you think Howard Blackburn might have been … you know … doing things to her?”
“I don’t, er, didn’t know him very well, but I do know he was a bit of a playboy. But that doesn’t imply rape.”
“No, it doesn’t, and as far as I can tell, all his relationships were consensual. No black marks on his record either.” He paused. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“I wish I could help, but-”
“What’s changed?”
�
�How do you mean?”
“Something’s changing the townspeople … so what’s changed?” He seemed to be speaking more to himself than her.
“Nothing ever changes in this town - the nightclub’s the first new business here in years.”
Nick’s eyes flashed. “The club. Have you been?”
“I went on opening night.”
“Did Dette go?”
“She’s been multiple times.”
“Who else was there?”
“Well, let’s see … The night I was there, I saw Rebecca McNair, Olivia LeBlatte, Paulette Driscoll, who runs the Sandman Motel. I saw Eric Cooterman … Roxie Michaelson and Tiffany Rhodes. And most of the ladies from Vang’s Bangs. Just about every-”
“You said most of the ladies from Vang’s Bangs. Who was there?”
“All the regulars except Evelyn Vang. Even Rosemary Hess was there.”
“I see.” Nick studied the empty basket of chips. “Did you have any drinks at the place?”
“Just a Coke.”
The waitress returned with several plates, followed by a busboy. Between the two of them, they brought the order in one trip.
“Enough of this for now,” said Nick. “I think I may at least have a starting point. Thank you.” He smiled. “I have one more thing to ask before we dive into our lunch. I’d like to invite you and Alejandro over this Sunday for a barbecue. I’ve talked to Tom Wainwright. He says he’d love to see you again, and he’ll be there. What do you say?”
“I’d love to. I’ll have Dette cover our booth at the fair. Count me and Alejandro in.”
The Immaculate Seduction
Nick drove down Killakee Road, making his way to St. Agatha’s - aka Club Mephistopheles. His lunch felt like seven pounds of molten lead in his belly and when the former church came into view, the heartburn was instantaneous. The cute little devil’s horns and tail on the sign did nothing to lessen the building’s oppressive feel. If anything, it made it worse.
He pulled into the parking lot, joining another dozen cars. Apparently the place was as much a bar as a nightclub, and had already acquired regulars. It seemed an awful lot of barflies at this hour, though. He killed the engine and sat there a moment. In A.A., he’d been warned against going places where alcohol was served. “And if you do go to such a place,” they’d said, “always take another recovering alcoholic with you.” But that wasn’t reasonable.
The Angel Alejandro Page 41
