by Copper Smith
“Yes, Mrs. Strickland. I’m Lillian, we’ve had a little contact in the past… yes, that’s right. And calling because there’s a little thing we need to clear up about some of the things you’ve been involved with around the neighborhood and –“
From the phone’s other end, Legato could hear a loud demand for information.
“No,” Lillian went on. “I haven’t been in touch with the police, but –“ She pulled the phone away, stunned by the silence on the other end. “She said she’d be right over.”
***
Together they waited ten minutes. For Legato it was tense, the clock loudly ticking out reminders that his mission was far from complete. For Lillian it was an adventure she couldn’t wait to send to the rumor mill.
A knock at the door got their attention. Lillian left the kitchen to answer it and brought Corrine right in. She stopped when she saw Legato, eyebrows suddenly up and head tilted. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
“Thank you, Lillian,” he said. “I’ll take it from here.”
Lillian ducked away and Legato said to Corrine, “I’m the man who attempted to deliver your daughter’s stuff.”
She said nothing, but Legato watched as her gaze raced to the floor.
“I understand you’ve made a few visits to the neighborhood.”
“Is it unusual for a mother to visit her daughter’s future husband?”
“And I understand you’ve escorted a few friends over.”
“I can’t believe I’m discussing this with… I’m sorry, who are you exactly?”
“Mrs. Strickland, if you think this conversation is awkward, perhaps you’d like to try it in an interrogation room – hooked up to a polygraph machine. All I want is to find your daughter’s killer. Because there’s a reason to believe he’s been involved in at least one other murder.”
“You suspect Tolliver?”
“I suspect somebody in the world Tolliver helped create. But first, I need you to come clean. Did you play a role in creating that world?”
She paced like a caged leopard. Then she stopped, faced him and just said it. “I never wanted her involved. I knew what he did for a living, but I wanted her out of it!”
“What did he do for a living?”
“He… sold women. He was a pimp.” A few tears fell as she fumbled for the rest of the words. “And I helped him. I brought women in and I paid for things he needed taken care of. We both did, Cassandra’s father and I. We helped kill her.”
He took her trembling hand. “No you didn’t. I’m going to find out who did.”
“I really need you to understand how desperate we were. We needed money and this charming young man comes into my daughter’s life, promising he’ll make her a star. We never trusted him, not for a second. It always seemed to me he was hiding something, some plan for her, something. We never knew what it was, but there was a demon in his closet.
“But she loved him anyway. I swear to God, she did. He didn’t love her back, but that didn’t stop her. Nothing could stop her. Cassandra was like that. Head strong, stubborn.
“She did what she wanted to do.”
“Yes, she did. And we agreed to help. First we gave this man of dubious character our daughter’s hand in marriage. Then we helped fund his business. And we’ll hate ourselves forever for it.”
“I need you to come to the police with me.”
“No! Nobody can know about what happened!”
“Mrs. Strickland!”
She pulled away and raced to the door. “You tell anybody what I’ve shared with you and I’ll deny it!” Then she was gone.
Legato sat there, thinking of sending a fist through the loudly ticking clock. With no moves left to make he raced from Lillian’s home. Tolliver’s house seemed a dead end – no car out front, no noise leaking into the yard, so he hobbled back to his car, headed home, craving a short nap before making another visit to twenty-four-seventeen.
But the nap didn’t help much and a trip to the back steps only gave him a new spot to pace. So he kept pacing as nighttime approached. Then came a nagging ring of his cell phone.
“Yeah?” he answered.
“Jake?” Cicely asked. “Why are you not… here?”
Shit. He’d ditched worked without knowing it. But at least it wasn’t Phillipson with more bad news. Nose clamped into fake congestion, he said, “Cicely, I’m totally sorry. There’s something crappy going around. Flu bug, cold, something. I’m totally sorry.”
“That’s… not acceptable, Jake. We really need to you give us a call ahead of time if you’re going to miss a day.”
But Legato’s attention had drifted away. Something in the distant weeds caught his eye. Flies gathered around a crimson-streaked slab of something.
“Jake…?”
He crept closer and saw a body tucked between plastic garbage bags. The cell phone fell from his hand, landing with a dull thud that startled him. He crouched to see the body. It felt like the final verse in a song he’d gotten sick of hearing. Dead body, carved up neck and chest, eyes staring at nothing, body draped in stripper gear. Legato didn’t move until he heard Cicely’s muffled voice. “Jake, are you there? Jake? Jake!” He dug the phone from the weeds and said. “I’m sorry, Cicely. We’ll talk later.”
He clicked the conversation dead and started dialing phillipson, struggling to focus on the number with so many thoughts blurring in his head. Then a scrap of paper under the victim’s left arm caught his attention. Careful not to touch it, he leaned over and gave it a read.
Bethany, Bethany, Bethany. Looks like tonight is not your lucky night, sweetheart. You didn’t ask for this and you’ve done nothing to deserve it – apart from being beautiful. But the Siren craves what she craves. And when she calls me late at night, demanding to be fed the bodies of beautiful ladies in need of absolution, I must answer.
I know a little about absolution. I’ve been a naughty boy myself. I’ve been a trusted figure who’s abused that trust to line my pockets. I’ve been desperate, frenzied, incomplete. I need this. And so do you.
Guess who
A shudder came through his limbs. It wasn’t just the ghastly sight of the body. Or even the note’s menacing tone. It was that this note was different. References to the siren remained and clearly these words came from the same troubled mind. But somewhere between notes two and three a twist had been added. And Legato had become that twist. He was being targeted. And any reader of the note would have to wonder if his luck could really be that bad: first dead body at his new workplace, second in an alley nearby, and third in the backyard of his apartment.
A shout came from his cell phone. “This is Phillipson!”
Legato didn’t move until the building’s back door creaked open. Two soft footsteps later, he turned. A thin elderly lady stood there – Julie from down the hallway. She gawked the body, saying nothing.
“This is Phillipson!” the detective repeated, impatient and growing worried.
Legato didn’t wait for a third reply. He tucked the phone into his pocket and did the same with the note, knowing that Phillipson’s involvement at this stage would be bad news for everybody except the murderer.
Julie raced into the building, probably contacting somebody who could only complicate matters. And Legato ducked around the building and got to his car en route to the only place that could make sense of this.
***
Tolliver’s lights were on as Legato sprinted out of his car. The front door would be a waste of time – his last trip there not being much fun. Music blasted from a side window, not as loud this time, but very likely an indication that he’d have his questions answered soon.
An open window on the second floor was his only shot at a discreet entrance. He climbed to the first floor window, then stretched for the second, coming up inches short. A dizzying glance to the ground didn’t help and the sirens in the distance only added to his heart’s thunderous pound. He jumped for it, grabbing the window sill and slo
wly pulling himself just high enough to gaze inside. The light was off, but a moving shadow in the hallway told him the room could be a safe place – provided he could land quietly.
With a delicate tuck and roll, he got himself into the room with little noise. Then he stood and ducked behind a curtain in case the figure in the hallway spotted him.
Legato waited a few tense minutes for the figure to step down the hallway and into another room. With his eyes adjusted to the dark, he vaguely recognized the room as the bedroom he’d been taken to before – the place with the closet full of weapons. An idea intruded. He tiptoed into the closet.
Cautiously opening the door and stabbing inside it with hands lit only by a sliver of moonlight, he felt a giant bag and dug into it. He stifled a scream as a sharp blade met his middle finger. But he dug into the bag a second time, tapping around until he found something that felt like a trigger. After carefully pulling the gun out he held it close to his face, trying to examine it. He saw and felt rust along the gun’s barrel – bad sign. An antique wouldn’t be much help. Reaching into the bag a third time, he tapped around for something that felt fairly smooth, then slowly withdrew it. Without being able to see much, he used his fingers to check if it was loaded and moving somewhat smoothly. Satisfied that the gun could serve its purpose if needed, he tucked it into a pocket, then tiptoed out of the room.
Legato got halfway down the hallway before being caught off-guard by laughter. And something about his laughter differed from the drug-fuelled chuckles he’d heard before from Tolliver and his friends. This laughter was warmer, more playful, more intimate. This laughter – two baritones – came from lovers. Maybe Jenk, maybe Lavon, didn’t matter. He’d found the ‘demon in the closet’ that eluded Corrine.
As the laughter threaded into breathy moans, Legato understood much more: Tolliver’s obsession with privacy made more sense, as did his unconventional relationship with Cassandra. As Corrine noted, he didn’t love her. He couldn’t.
Legato reflected on the note attached to the body – a note that now made little sense coming from Tolliver. And not only because a preoccupation with female strippers suddenly seemed unlikely. The note had to come from somebody familiar with Legato’s past. Adding things up quickly, he scampered back to the window he’d come out of and quietly scaled back down it. Running to his car, he dialed Phillipson again, preparing to explain why Andy was the man they should have been after.
“Phillipson,” he answered.
“It’s Legato, I’ve got your killer, Phillipson. Get over to Andy’s!”
“It’s too late, Stallion, we’re onto your game.”
“I’m not playing a game. I’m helping you just like a agreed to!”
“We stopped at Toliver’s house and guess what we found? Your fingerprints all over Cassandra’s clothes. Pretty odd for two people who’ve never met, right Legato?”
“Look, I can explain all of this!”
“You’ve done enough explaining. Anything else you have to say will be coming from a jail cell.”
The phone went dead and Legato sent the gas pedal to the floor. If he couldn’t get the cops to pick up Andy, he’d get them there another way.
A clock atop a rapidly passing building told him it was three minutes before seven. Just about time for Ginger and her friends’ memorial service – refreshments supplied by Andy.
As the suburbs blurred past, he scooped out his cell phone, in hopes of reaching Ginger. But he didn’t have Ginger’s number. So he dialed Andy, got him quickly.
“Hello?”
Hiding the panic in his voice, Legato said, “Hey Andy! You at the memorial party for the girls right now?”
“Um… how’d you know about that?”
“Oh, you know how word gets around with the girls. Look, Ginger said you might bring some refreshments…”
“Uh… yeah, I am. I sort of can’t talk right now. I’m on my way over, but I’ll be there in about ten minutes –“
“Great, I’ll see you there, buddy!”
He hung up, still needing the address and wishing he had more than ten minutes to get there. The address he took care of by digging the tattered napkin from his wallet, not easy to do at ninety miles per hour. Trading glances between the road and the address scribbled on the napkin, he kept weaving through traffic, hoping the distant siren behind him was for somebody else.
But it wasn’t. It kept roaring in pursuit as he sped toward the address: 7714 Dupont Avenue. As the suburbs whizzed behind him, weaving through traffic got harder and harder. He was at 83rd and Dupont, then 82nd, but a cement truck ahead promised a dead end, no way to avoid hitting it. And turning back would mean delivering himself to the cops.
A sliver of space between the truck and a stop sign grew skinnier as the truck backed up. Twenty feet became ten as Legato sped toward it.
He tried to steer through it, but the space was too tight and he slammed the driver’s side hard against the truck’s rear, sending his tiny Mazda spinning into an empty parking lot.
Dizzy and disheveled, he pulled himself from the smashed-up car, sirens approaching from behind, but he had to keep going, had to get there before Andy did.
He ducked behind a dumpster as the cops stopped at the wrecked Mazda. They got out, guns drawn, and eyes focused on the car’s insides, giving him just enough time to scamper away.
He looked up to see 81st street, then got to 80th, his legs weary, his breath labored. At 79th street he heard the sirens start up again and it didn’t take long for them to catch up. But he’d gotten to 78th, then limped inside the building once they had drawn their guns.
The girls were there, stunned by the noise and cop’s convention outside. Legato raced down the hallway and into a giant rec room, finding a plate of sandwiches, a bunch of cups containing a light blue substance. But no Andy. “Ladies, don’t drink or eat anything!”
Ginger entered the room. “The hell’s going on?”
“Where’s Andy?” Legato demanded.
“I don’t know, getting something from his car, I guess.” she answered.
“Where is his car?”
Ginger lifted a finger to the parking lot – visible through the open back door. But before he could run through it, six cops were there, guns out. “Everybody get down and show me your hands!” one of them screamed.
Legato obeyed, but spotted a familiar Silhouette outside. Andy ducked away to his car. His getting away – even for only a few hours – would complicate things. It could have made Legato’s story harder to sell, and worse yet, it could have given Andy enough time to take more grim orders from the siren.
As Andy’s car belched into motion, Legato waited for the right moment to squirt free. The cops were checking the girls one-by-one and with just the right timing, he could leap to his feet and race out of the door…
Scrambling out to the parking lot, Legato ignored the officers yelling, “Sir, I need you to get down!” He raced to Andy’s car as it started away, drew his gun, ignoring more shouted commands from the cops. He fired, hitting the car’s rear tires. It spun into a bus, stranding Andy in the middle of the street. He emerged, hands up, stunned. The cops stared at them both, guns on Legato, not sure what to make of the mess.
But Legato only said. “Here’s your man. Check out the sandwiches, the drinks, the fingerprints on the bodies. You’ve got your murderer right here.”
He spent fifteen tense minutes in handcuffs. Then Phillipson got there, wearing an embarrassed grin that told Legato everything he needed to know. “Let him go,” the detective told the shocked officers. And Andy was escorted to the squad car, eyes wordlessly begging for an old friend’s help.
From Phillipson, Legato got a handshake and nothing more. As the squad cars floated into the night, Ginger emerged, shaken but finally breathing again. “You want to explain what just happened?”
“Got a few hours?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I’m seeing a client tonight.”
“We’
ll talk again some other time. Maybe.”
She gave his shoulder a gentle rub, then mouthed the words thank you before backpedalling to her car. And Legato just stood there trying not to watch her leave.
***
The misadventures with his Mazda meant taking a bus home, giving him enough time to wonder how Andy put everything together. Legato concluded that he didn’t. He had help.
Somebody needed to set things up, to rope Legato into the giant mess, to haul the body to his apartment.
He needed somebody who could slip under the world’s radar. Somebody to plan the details without attracting attention. Somebody like the girl every guy sat next to in high school but never noticed.
Standing at the front steps of his apartment building, Legato picked up his cell phone and dialed.
She answered after half a ring. “It’s too late,” Cicely said. “I’m gone.”
“They’ll get you eventually. You know that, don’t you?”
“Everybody gets gotten eventually, don’t they? The trick is to have your fun before they haul you away.”
“Which part was the most fun for you, Cicely? Writing the notes? Hauling that body to my apartment building? Providing an alibi for Andy’s whereabouts? Getting me to put my fingerprints on Cassandra’s clothes? Or just planning out the murders?”
“I didn’t plan anything! Andy was who he was before I got there. But he kept telling me these fantasies of what he wanted to do, what he would do if I wanted him to. I guess I was flattered. Somebody would do that for me? So I… dared him. I told him I’d help him, keep him from getting caught. I’d find somebody else to take the fall. All I needed was the perfect fall guy with a shaky past.”
“And that’s when Andy told you about me.”
“Exactly.”
“Congratulations. You got somebody to notice you and all it took was three innocent lives.”
“That blood is on Andy’s hands – not mine! I didn’t play a role in the actual… you know, killings.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. He may have done the killing, but you made the killer. Before you, he was just a creep with some weird fantasies. You molded him, gave him the inspiration to do more. He was your creation, wasn’t he?”
She paused, then said, “I guess he was, wasn’t he?” Like a revelation. Legato could almost hear the prideful grin from the other line.
