When he looked at himself now, saw the rejuvenation taking place, he dared to hope that he would soon return to that world of Casanova, that he would once again be a player, strut and maneuver through the glitz and glamour of those expensive watering holes where beautiful women came to feed. He could close his eyes and imagine them all turning his way, smiling to themselves, nodding, wetting their lips, crossing and uncrossing their legs, palpitations starting to pump up the surface of their complexions until they blushed with desire.
All because of him.
I’m coming back, he thought. Beware female America.
He laughed to himself and went out to the restaurant, to his booth. He had only a few hundred left, but it was enough for now. He would have lots more by tomorrow, he thought. He began with an Irish whiskey on the rocks, then a Caesar salad and a New York strip steak. It came with creamed spinach and mash potatoes. Just as he had done in the coffee shop at breakfast, which now seemed like days and days ago, he wiped the plate clean with a piece of bread and then ordered the ice-cream mud pie for dessert. The waitress was amused at his ravenous appetite.
‘Are you always this hungry?’ she asked him once he’d cleaned up every drop of his dessert.
He looked up at her, actually looked at her for the first time. His mind had been focused entirely on the food. A trained monkey could have brought it to him and he wouldn’t have noticed.
She couldn’t be more than twenty-four, twenty-five, he thought. Her hips were a bit wide, but she had an ample bosom and he liked her neck. He was always that way when it came to women. He was always looking at their necks, even before he looked at their breasts, legs or asses. Maybe he was a frustrated vampire after all, but in his mind’s eye, he could see himself sucking, nibbling and kissing those necks first. He even liked the base of this girl’s throat. It was sexy.
He smiled and sat back, spreading his arm over the top of the seat.
‘I’ve been on this stupid diet,’ he told her. ‘Tonight, I decided to toss it.’
‘You certainly did,’ she said laughing. Then she grew serious. ‘That’s why I don’t believe in diets myself. You follow some stupid regime and lose five, eight pounds and then go back to the way you were and in days, regain it. It’s better just to eat in moderation and exercise. I know,’ she added quickly, ‘don’t say it. I can use some moderation and exercise.’
‘Hey, I wasn’t thinking that at all. I was thinking how wise you are for your age.’ She blushed. ‘Shirley,’ he added nodding at her name tag.
‘Thank you. Can I get you anything else? More coffee?’
‘Yeah, maybe more coffee,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
She took his cleaned dish and walked back to the kitchen.
She’s putting a little extra into that wiggle, he thought. They do it subconsciously after they get compliments. It wakes some sleeping beast in them. He loved analyzing women because he was confident that he really had an understanding of them. He thought of them almost as another species. The difference was just too great. Everything they did came from a different place. He doubted that they saw anything in the world the same way as men did.
Thinking these deeper thoughts suddenly caused him to wonder about something. Maybe, he had gained wisdom as quickly as he had developed gray hair, deeper wrinkles and all the rest. Wow. He had reached into that cave of wealth right under the nose of the dragon and plucked out some choice realizations, things that took other people decades to understand. Why shouldn’t he have gained something good from all this? He deserved it.
Shirley returned with a fresh cup of coffee. When she leaned over to place it on the table, he could smell her body. It was a little disguised by her cologne, but that cologne had worn off enough for him to capture not her sweat so much as her identifying scent. Everyone had a different scent. Dogs proved that.
Another wild idea came rushing into his thoughts. What if as he was returning, rejuvenating, he was developing sharper senses? What if he was eating like this because he could taste food better than most people? What if he could see, hear, feel, smell better than most people now? What if he was a real Superman in a way? Imagine what a lover he could be.
He was smiling so deeply, it brought a smile to Shirley’s face, too.
‘You look pretty happy,’ she said.
‘Yeah. I was just thinking how lucky I am to be alive and kicking.’
She laughed. ‘Why? Did you have some sort of close call recently?’
‘You know, I did,’ he said. He sipped some coffee. ‘I nearly gave up on life. But I’m coming back,’ he declared. ‘And coming back strong.’
She laughed again.
‘Are you engaged, married, involved with anyone?’ he asked.
‘Sorta,’ she replied.
‘Sorta married?’
‘Sorta involved.’
‘Well, get it sorted out,’ he said and laughed. She just held her smile. ‘Tell you what. I’ve got some very important business to do tomorrow. Maybe I’ll come by again. If it works out like I think it will, you can celebrate with me. I’ll take you to a restaurant that is four times as expensive as this one. Bet your sorta boyfriend won’t.’
She lost her smile.
‘He will when he can,’ she said. ‘I don’t just go out with anyone who comes in. I’m sorry.’
Her unexpected response deflated him so quickly, he thought he had actually shrunk in the seat. What happened to that overwhelming effect he had on women?
‘Hey, I didn’t mean nothin’,’ he replied. ‘I was just trying to be nice.’
‘It’s all right. I wish you lots of luck,’ she said, tore out the bill and put it on the table. She flashed him a plastic smile and sauntered off, not wiggling at all.
His food seemed to harden in his stomach.
His mood did a flip-flop. What if these changes were temporary? What if he would degenerate again? Maybe there was nothing unusual about all this and they expected it. What if he would have not run away? Would they have delivered what they had promised? His mind reeled about in confusion for a few moments until he settled down and convinced himself they were not expecting this. They did not want him to survive. Remember Father Martin’s face. If this were anticipated, he wouldn’t have had that reaction. No second thoughts, he told himself. Keep going.
He pealed off the cash to pay his bill and then, now out of spite, he left Shirley a dollar tip. She had no right to turn on him like that and make him feel inadequate. Take a dollar. See how adequate that makes you feel, smartass, he thought as he rose and walked out without so much as glancing in her direction.
He walked for a while to calm himself and then he made a sharp turn, crossed the street and slipped into the parking garage. He started toward Temple’s parking space when he heard the distinct sound of the elevator and pressed himself against the wall to watch and wait. Who was here this time of night? The door opened and a custodian stepped out. He started toward a small pickup truck that had print on the outside of the doors advertising custodial services.
Sure, he thought, the janitor. He would work at night. The janitor! He realized and sprung off the wall. The janitor didn’t hear him despite the echo of footsteps. He probably imagined them to be his own. Who else would be here? Just as he reached his truck, Bradley stepped up beside him and put his knife to his throat.
The janitor, a short, somewhat plump, nearly bald man, gasped and froze.
‘Easy, Mr Clean,’ Bradley whispered in his ear. ‘If you’re good, you’ll live.’
‘What do you want?’ the janitor managed, his voice squeaking with terror.
‘I want keys.’
‘Keys?’
‘I want the keys to Jack Temple’s law offices.’
He pressed the knife hard enough to actually cut the custodian’s skin. The blood trickled on to the blade and then Bradley lifted the blade to show him. He couldn’t see from behind, but the man’s eyes literally bulged with fear. He nodded his head.
�
��Here,’ he said, reaching into his deep overall pockets to produce a ring of keys.
‘Hold them up and show me which one opens Temple’s office doors. Go on.’
He held them up and illustrated that the keys were marked with tags. Temple’s was obvious. There were three keys so Bradley imagined one opened the inner or private office. He took the ring from the custodian.
‘OK, where are the keys to the truck?’
The custodian handed them to him quickly.
‘Good. Now let’s go around to the passenger’s side of the truck,’ he ordered.
They moved almost comically with the janitor taking small, careful steps and Bradley pressing against him and keeping the knife against his throat.
When they got there, he told the janitor to open the door. He did.
‘OK, you get in first,’ Bradley said and he started to do just that when Bradley slit his throat and then pushed him on to the seat.
While the man gagged on his own blood, Bradley calmly walked around the truck to the driver’s side and got in. He looked down at him. The man’s body shuddered and jerked about for a few more moments before growing still.
Bradley started the truck, backed up and drove out of the garage.
Couldn’t leave the truck there, he thought. It would stir curiosity in the morning.
He drove until he found a relatively quiet side street and then parked the truck in the first spot he found. He pushed the custodian’s body to the floor so it wouldn’t be immediately obvious. Then he got out and started his walk back to the garage, the ring of keys jingling in his hands, the smile widening on his face.
Someone up there likes me, he thought and laughed aloud at his good fortune.
With their guns drawn, both Tucker and Palmer approached Ceil Morris’ apartment. They listened outside the door for a few moments and then made their entrance. A quick perusal revealed the apartment was unoccupied.
Tucker looked back at the apartment door and whistled when he inspected the damage.
‘Determined son of a bitch, wasn’t he?’
Mrs Lomar, whom they had buzzed to get in, came out of her apartment to join them.
‘Thanks for agreeing to see us, Mrs Lomar,’ Palmer said immediately and handed her one of his cards.
She looked past him into the apartment. ‘Did he steal anything?’
‘We’re not sure yet,’ Palmer said.
‘Do you know if she had anything of real value in here?’ Tucker asked stepping up. ‘I’m Detective Browning,’ he said quickly.
‘Ceil? She had less than me and I have nothing.’ Mrs Lomar replied. ‘Of course,’ she added, ‘you never know what someone might have buried in an old shoe box or something. A cousin of mine died and we thought she was penniless, but she had hoarded nearly fifty thousand dollars in a collection of antique Chinese vases. It was almost missed, but my sister, whose nosey enough to look in your ears, discovered it. Imagine?’
Palmer reached into his jacket pocket and produced the picture he had of Bradley Morris, the one from the correctional facility folder.
‘Was this the man?’
She shook her head. ‘No, he was older.’
‘He didn’t resemble him? In any way?’ Tucker pursued.
She looked at the picture again. ‘Maybe a little,’ she admitted. ‘Could be his brother, I suppose.’
‘I know you’ve described the man to the detectives from the robbery division, but could you tell us again exactly what he looked like.’
She shrugged. ‘Exactly? I didn’t look at him long. I can tell you he was in a very nice suit and an expensive looking pair of shoes. He had gray hair very nicely styled, clean shaven. I couldn’t say how old he was, but I assure you it made no sense for him to say he was Ceil Morris’ son. I know she was in her fifties and he looked at least as old as that.’
‘How old?’
‘Maybe fifty, fifty-five.’
‘Not older?’
‘It’s not easy to tell someone’s age, you know,’ she said defensively. ‘Some people age nicely. My sister’s husband is nearly eighty-one, but you would think he was no more than seventy. He still has a full head of hair!’
‘What about this man’s hair?’
‘It wasn’t as full as my brother-in-law’s. I can tell you that.’
‘Could he have been made up to look older?’ Palmer asked. ‘Look at this photo again, please. Could this be the man made to look older?’
She looked at him as if he was asking a nutty question. ‘You mean like in a play or a movie?’
‘Yes.’
She shrugged. ‘I didn’t get as close to him as I am to you so I can’t swear to anything like that. I didn’t like looking at him. He didn’t have nice eyes. They made me nervous.’
‘Can you remember exactly what he said?’ Tucker asked.
‘When I first saw him, and I saw the door and what he had done, he said, he was worried about his mother. I’m sure he said that, but when I asked him and told him I thought he said he was her son, he looked like he was in a panic and said no, he didn’t say that. But he did,’ she insisted. ‘He must be a nutcase. You think he might come back?’
Tucker looked at Palmer and then said, ‘If you do see him again, you should call us immediately.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ she replied. ‘I certainly wouldn’t hesitate.’
‘Thank you for your help,’ Palmer said.
‘I didn’t do much,’ she said. ‘Except run into a crazy man.’
They watched her walk back to her apartment.
‘She might be the only one who knows what’s going on here,’ Tucker said. ‘Can we go home now?’
‘So what do you make of the perp’s message to me, this comment that he is sorting out justice here and we should leave him be?’ Palmer asked Tucker as they drove off.
‘I go back to the old lady’s comment. We’re dealing with some nutcase.’ He paused and looked at Palmer. ‘You don’t think he killed the cab driver in the name of some wild justice, do you?’
‘No, that was probably a killing during a robbery and to keep him from being quickly identified. I do believe he didn’t expect his mother to turn him in.’
‘If she really was his mother, which I still strongly doubt, Palmer, she didn’t exactly turn him in. She wanted us first to …’
‘Punish those who had done him harm,’ Palmer said, smiling. ‘The realization she was robbed wasn’t until later and she didn’t actually seek to press charges against him. That was us sending Wizner there.’
‘So how does Father Martin fit into this?’
‘He’s blaming or blamed him for something,’ Palmer said.
‘Look. As I said, I haven’t bought into the idea that this is somehow Bradley Morris, Palmer. We have only the testimony of a woman who was quite disturbed and the fact that he’s using Bradley Morris’ name.’
‘And the fact that the doctor who signed his death certificate at the prison was apparently murdered.’
‘I admit that looks suspicious, but in the end that could turn out to be just be a hit-and-run.’
‘What about Watson’s heart attack brought on by a meth overdose?’
‘We don’t know if the guy was or was not a user. It doesn’t make sense to us, but so much of what we see in this world we investigate doesn’t,’ Tucker said. ‘Now that I hear this old lady’s testimony, the idea that another con took on Bradley Morris’ identity is making more and more sense to me. Ceil Morris wanted to believe he was her son. It’s like that scene in Catch 22, remember, when those parents are brought in to see their dying son for the last time and it’s not their dying son, but they accept him as so. No parent likes to face a child’s passing.’
‘Even …’
‘Even if she buried him herself, yes.’
‘OK,’ Palmer said. ‘I’ll back off. Let’s wait to see what we learn tomorrow.’
‘There is a God after all,’ Tucker cried. Palmer laughed. ‘Get som
e sleep, Palmer,’ he told him when Palmer dropped him off.
‘I’ll try.’
Tucker held the door open and then smiled. ‘Got company?’
‘Figure it out. You’re a detective,’ Palmer said.
Tucker laughed again and closed the door.
When Palmer returned to his apartment, he found Tracy waiting in his bed, but the toll was first he had to give her every little detail.
Then, and only then, did she agree to make love.
He thought it well worth the price.
Nine
Mrs Goodman gave Simon his freshly squeezed orange juice, his fresh coffee and his poached egg on whole wheat toast. She moved about silently. He kept his eyes on her every gesture and look, waiting for some sign that she anticipated his imminent demise. He had a suspicion that she would know what Mr Dover intended to do with him before he did. Paranoia came with the territory. You couldn’t be part of a clandestine operation without being skeptical and leery. It was merely self-defense.
After breakfast, Simon went into his office, spread the lab reports in front of him on his desk and gazed at the numbers. In his mind’s eye, he saw a graph that was twisting and spinning, tangling up like some tornado and in the process destroying his dream. He looked nervously at the clock. Mr Dover would be here any moment. He had to come up with logical, rational explanations. Regardless of all this confusion, he was on the verge of creating this great program. Despite the results with some specimens whereby their age was accelerated, and now this unexpected strong resurrection of some immune systems, he was still very confident of his success. It was just a matter of adjusting here, tweaking there. Hell, the inventor of the steam engine went through a development process with failures along the way, didn’t he? Any inventor did.
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